Icarus Drowning
by WitchGirl
Summary: What happens when Greg flies too close to the sun? Drugs, sex, addiction, love, desperation, and a cat. Will evolve into N/G slash, so you've been duly warned. RATING HAS RISEN.
1. Fall From Grace

Icarus Drowning

**Summary:** What happens when Greg flies too close to the sun?

_**Author's Note:**_ Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta. Also, a thanks to Erowid-Dot-Com for the research, as well as my own personal field worker "Tom" who has reported to me the many pleasurable and not-so-pleasurable effects of psychoactive drugs in as honest a manner possible.

* * *

"unsignificantly  
off the coast  
there was

a splash quite unnoticed  
this was  
Icarus drowning"

--William Carlos Williams, "_Landscape With The Fall of Icarus_"

* * *

_I know what I'm doing_.

He took a step backwards, blinking, out of touch. His hands grasped for something to hold onto as he plummeted back down to the earth, his arrogant flight of fancy cut short by the sound of the gun shot, her eyes locked on him even as they grew cloudy with the dark storm that would soon consume her. He imagined that he saw forgiveness in them, but he wasn't quite sure what such an ambiguous idea may look like. He thought that perhaps it resembled a flower, maybe a lily, blooming in the water, struggling against the mud and rain, and yet blooming all the same. But if forgiveness was a flower, Greg saw no blossoms in her eyes. Only tricks of the light.

_I don't need your help._

The man who held her looked down as the blood began to trickle out of the corner of her mouth silently. She made no noise, nor did she squirm or move or cry. She simply just slid down against the man who held her upright, until he dropped her callously like a rag doll and looked up at Greg, almost daringly, challenging the boy to shoot again.

He didn't.

_I don't need you babysitting me._

Greg dropped the gun. He heard it clatter when it hit the concrete. Heard the yelling, saw the flashes of red and blue that reflected off the walls. The man had already started running, the body of the woman in the white dress strewn haphazardly on the concrete. Greg didn't have to approach her. He knew she was very much dead. She was dead the minute he'd pulled that trigger.

_It's easy. In, out and I'm done. Bada bing bada boom._

There were hands on his shoulders, shaking them. He recognized the firm grip, the gravelly voice, the echoes of a person who used to be on his side. He called Greg's name again and again and Greg blinked repeatedly, forcing himself out of his trance, knowing he would have to act, have to tell the detective what had happened.

"He shot her."

If that was the truth, then why did he feel like he was lying?

"Who? Did you see him?"

Greg tried to imagine his features, but all he kept coming up with was his own face. "White. Curly hair. Brown. Thirties, maybe. Little taller than me."

"Who is she? What was she doing here?"

"Dunno. Came out of that building, the both of them. At first they were laughing, and she was Latina, just like the vic in the garbage bags out here… Told them it was a crime scene. Didn't listen. He grabbed her. She got scared. I fired. He killed her."

"You fired?"

"Into the wall," Greg breathed, nodding at the brick next to the door they had come out of. "I have shitty aim."

"And he shot her?"

"Because I shot at him."

The haggard detective looked over his shoulder at the body that other officers were checking out. He turned his attention back to Greg. "Your shot hit the wall?"

_No, it hit her,_ he wanted to say. "Yeah. You should find the slug there."

"You OK?"

"Peachy."

"You sound… detached."

"I'll be fine. It's a job hazard, right?"

"I'm gonna call Grissom—"

"Don't tell him I shot anyone, OK?"

"You _didn't_ shoot anyone, Sanders."

"Yeah, well just… Say he shot her. You don't have to say that I…" He frowned, the last moments of her life flashing before his eyes, the haze that invaded her vision, the lack of blooming flowers in her soft brown orbs…

"… Greg, do you want me to take you home?"

"No, I can manage, it's OK. I'll go back to the lab. Process the… Process the evidence."

"This scene is contaminated. Double crime scene now. Things are going to have to be reprocessed. By someone who isn't you."

"Fine. I have old cases I'm working on anyway."

"Greg, go home."

"Why? Physically, I'm fine. Emotionally, steady as a rock. Look." He held out his stable hand to prove it.

"And psychologically, you're dissociating," said the detective. "Go home. Have a stiff drink. Come back in the morning."

"I told Nick I knew what I was doing…" Greg muttered.

"You did good, Greg."

"Solo case and all…" Greg continued. He focused on the detective and smiled. "He'd wanted to come. Just for company, he said. But I knew better. He was checking up on me. He'll never let me live this one down, will he? I'm gonna be stuck in this rut forever. You think I'm cursed?"

Greg saw the older man sigh. "No. I think you're a smart kid who's handled some sticky situations, and pretty damn well I might add."

"Mm…" Greg murmured, feeling far away. "Maybe."

"Let me take you home. Would you?"

"I can take care of myself, thank you, Captain."

The detective frowned. "It'll make _me_ feel better. And I know it'll make _Grissom_ feel better."

But as was his fashion when he was uncomfortable, Greg forced a goofy grin. "Relax, Jim," he said to the detective. "This happens every day." _People fall from grace every day._

He could tell that Brass wanted to protest, but they both knew with the grim understanding that came with their jobs that Greg was absolutely right. Although, Brass had interpreted Greg's statement as a sweeping generalization about people dying, and had no inklings of the thoughts Greg wished to voice. As far as Captain Jim Brass could tell, Greg seemed to be handling the situation rather well. And Greg knew this, because he saw the detective's face morph into several different expressions of unease and ambivalence.

"You'll call me, when you get home?" Brass asked, slowly.

Greg nodded. "And if you need anything…"

"You don't need to worry about it, I think we have that covered," said Brass. The detective patted the young CSI on the back and Greg felt his hand linger there momentarily before he walked away, leaving Brass to clean up the mess that he had made. He walked determinedly to his car and grasped the handle, pulling the door open before calmly climbing inside. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled to life. He exhaled as he gripped the wheel and closed his eyes.

He felt like a criminal fleeing the scene of the crime.

Half of him wanted Brass to run up the car, drag him out, and slap cuffs on his wrists.

But the other half kept repeating that it wasn't his fault.

He couldn't go home. He knew that. He needed to get his mind off death and women in white dresses. It was iconic, and it was chilling, and Greg desperately needed to purge it from his mind. He caught his lip between his teeth and hit the gas, driving off into the artificial noon that was the lights of Las Vegas.

* * *

The club was loud, the heavy bass rattling Greg's bones as he entered, glancing around for the bar. Everything was black-lit in purples and the odd neon glow stick stood out in the crowd. But Greg was used to this scene. He hadn't been on it in a while, due to the demands of his job, but returning to it was like coming home after a very long day. He had missed the anonymity, the thrill, and the sheer nonchalance of everyone there. No one came here in search of a relationship. They came here in search of a connection. They came here because the music was far too loud to have any real conversation, and the drinks were far too strong to spend too much money on them. In short, people came here with their hearts and wallets intact and tended to leave the same way. It was one of those rare businesses that was actually in it for the experience, rather than the pay off.

Greg knew for a fact they didn't water down their drinks. He had worked here for a short period of time back when he was naïve and idealistic about the world, before he'd settled down and gotten a "real job," as his mother had put it. Most of the employees he'd known back then had all left for greener pastures, but there was one bartender by the name of Lyle who still worked there.

"G-man!" he exclaimed over the heavy beat of the music as Greg took a stool at the bar. He wasn't large, but he was quite well-toned, with dark eyes and a square jaw which was under a blanket of brown and black speckled stubble. His left arm was covered with one grand tattoo which stopped at his wrist like the sleeve of a shirt. "Long time no see! What can I get for you this evening?"

"Scotch on the rocks," Greg ordered, managing a weak smile in greeting.

The bartender nodded and moved to make Greg's drink. In the meantime, Greg sighed, and tried not to dwell on how far he had fallen since he had begun working on the crime lab. But it was difficult.

_"I'm sorry ma'am, sir, but this is a crime scene, you're going to have to leave."_

_"Crime scene, eh?"_

_"Is there a body? Oooh, do you think he'll let us see the body, querido?"_

_"Hush, doll. What kind of crime scene?"_

_"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to escort this fine lady away from here. I can't have you contaminating the scene."_

_"You good at your job, man?"_

_"Well, I'd like to think so… Please, come on, I'll show you the way to the street from here—"_

_"How good are you when you have a gun pointing at you?"_

_"Querido!"_

_"Shut up, doll!"_

He was jolted from his thoughts by something vibrating against his thigh. Blinking, he absently noticed his scotch sitting there in front of him. He downed it all in one shot, swallowing three times, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone.

The word _Nick_ flashed at him on the display. He gripped the phone momentarily, contemplating answering, but inevitably decided against it. If Nick really wanted to talk to him, he'd leave a message. Besides, he wouldn't be able to hear anything over the pounding music.

"You alone, sugar?" asked a slim, scantily-clad brunette on his right.

He was rarely interested in women, but he also was becoming weary of his isolation. And, after all, he had come here in search of a connection, just like everyone else. "Isn't everybody?" he replied, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "In the end, I mean."

"That's a morbid thought," she commented, but slid closer to him. He had obviously piqued her interest.

"Well, I'm a morbid guy," Greg told her with a shrug.

"Ya don't look it," she noted, her eyes making a quick sweep of his body. She smiled. "Can I buy a morbid guy a drink?"

Her voice was nasal, and flared, like a few New Yorkers he had met back in the day. "Sure, why not?" he said half-heartedly.

She gestured at Lyle. "Two whiskey sours."

Greg scoffed. "Whiskey sour?"

"Not your drink?" she said, with a sly smirk that suggested she would _make _it his drink.

"A bit strong for a lady such as yourself, isn't it?" he said, almost flirtatiously.

"I can handle it," she said as Lyle arrived with their drinks. The burly bartender caught Greg's eye for a moment before he was whisked away by another order.

His phone was vibrating again. He looked down and fished it out to see that Nick was the cause of it. He chewed on his lip, knowing that a second call meant that it was urgent, but he guiltily put the phone away. Talking on the phone in this place was like trying to talk to someone through a brick wall. He would call Nick back as soon as he left the club.

He reached for his drink absently and took a sip, pursing his lips slightly at the lemon juice. It seemed there was more sour than whiskey in his drink, and he looked up curiously at Lyle, but the bartender was busy entertaining a pair of drunk blondes with glow stick necklaces.

"How's it taste, sugar?" asked his new friend.

Greg looked up to see her chewing on her straw, her legs crossed as her gaze pierced him, like a predatory bird. A hawk, maybe, if she'd possessed yellow eyes. But she didn't. Her eyes were hazel, but looked just as dangerous.

"A little sour," Greg replied.

"Isn't that the point?" she chuckled.

Greg took another sip through the straw and decided she was right. It wasn't his favorite drink, but he did get it for free, so he might as well enjoy it. "So where do you…" He blinked. "I'm sorry, lost my train of thought. Um… where are you from?"

"Alabama," she said with a smile. "A little place called Elkmont. We almost have five hundred people living there, you know."

He nodded, but stopped abruptly when he noticed it made him slightly dizzy. "Small town, eh? Yeah, I… sometimes I wish I grew up in a…" He closed his eyes tight and rubbed them with his hand. "Um, I'm not feeling so good. Guess it's been a while since I… alcohol and I… my job doesn't let me… What were we talking about?"

"Finish your drink, sugar," said the sweetheart next to him.

He frowned at the glass in his hands, which was already two thirds gone. "Small drink… Don't think that's a good idea anyway, seeing as I'm… What's your name?"

"You can call me Camellia," she said. "And you are?"

He took the last sip of his drink and slammed it on the bar. A smile claimed his features as the tension in his body seemed to melt away and splash onto the floor. He was drowsy, but also daring. "Greg," he said. "Care to dance?"

Camellia took him by the hand and pulled him out of his seat. "Sweep me off my feet, _querido_."

Greg was momentarily startled. Flashes of a Latina woman in a white dress danced across his vision. "What did you say?"

But before he knew it, he was being whirled around, the lights around him were spinning, and he felt the air hit his face… After that, it was just patches of memory, insignificant moments as someone led him out the door, flashes of her black high heels, a pounding headache, the urge to vomit, and someone hitting him hard in the chest, and then there was nothing.

* * *

The sound of a car rushing by echoed in his ears. Fireworks were erupting behind his closed lids, and there was this odd, shrill ringing in his ears, like a school bell that wouldn't relent. He wondered if it was his alarm clock and his hand exhaustedly banged at where it should have been.

There was the sound of jingling bottles and paper as his hand landed in something soft and wet. That's when Greg registered the smell permeating his nostrils. It was one he knew well, and yet, one he loathed, and as he recognized the smell, he suddenly knew exactly where he was. It was a compound smell of old pizza and rotting fruit, combined with wet newspaper and cardboard. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a blue sky between the roofs of two buildings. The bed he laid on buzzed beneath him and he felt something crawl across his skin. He noticed a rather large cockroach with its antennas cocked in his direction in a curious way. Greg shook his arm violently to rid himself of the insect.

The headache that had invaded his skull refused to vacate. It had found a nice cozy home for itself after it had burrowed into the center of Greg's brain, and Greg imagined it was cranking its stereo up as loud as possible to intentionally be a very rood roommate. He groaned. His muscles were sore, especially his stomach, and he smelled like…

He smelled like garbage.

_I should probably get out of the dumpster_, he reasoned. But moving seemed like a foreign task at the moment. Even considering where he was, he was still reluctant to sit up, let alone climb out of the dumpster. He was caught between his revulsion for where he was and the disinclination of movement. When he heard a squeak somewhere near his feet and felt something scaly slither across the skin of his ankle, he decided movement was best.

His hands gripped the edge of the dumpster and he hoisted himself up. His headache began furiously pounding on the walls of his skull, obviously annoyed that Greg had decided to move. But he tried to ignore it by gritting his teeth and swinging his sore leg over the side before dropping to the ground with a splash.

Splash?

"Aw, man!" Greg moaned as he looked down to see that he had just leapt into vomit. And judging by the stale taste in his mouth, it was probably his own. He felt absolutely worse than disgusting. He reached into his pocket in search of a phone and found nothing there. Growling, he glanced over into the dumpster to see if anything had fallen out there. It wasn't on the surface, and Greg wasn't in the mood to go dumpster diving when he wasn't on the clock.

So instead, he resolved himself to take a cab and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

It was absent.

He tried to recall what events had led him to this place and then it suddenly occurred to him. _Camellia._

"Fuck me!" Greg exclaimed, letting his head fall back on his shoulders. He knew she must have slipped him something, and then led him out here to mug him. Which would explain why his gut was sore. He groaned again as his headache decided to dance around his skull, first jumping on one part of his brain then another.

_Now what?_ he wondered, gaping at the sky. He needed to get home. He needed a _shower_. He needed to get the repugnant stench of sour milk and sulfuric eggs off of him. The hair on his arms began to prickle and he felt a strange burning sensation on his skin. He wondered half-interestedly if there was any toxic waste in that dumpster.

He shuddered and tried to shake off the acidic sensation as he walked out of the alley and towards the parking lot of the club he had gone to the night before, scanning it for his car, only to find it missing. "This is just great," he grumbled with a roll of his eyes, and strode back into the alley.

He noticed the back door to the club and wondered if someone inside would be a good Samaritan and lend him money for a cab. He pushed the door open and found himself in a stairwell leading to another door and moved towards it, pulling it open. As he walked, he tried to stretch out his stiff and lethargic muscles. He was in the main room now, which was completely empty and all the lights were on. No black lights, no roaring music, no enthusiastic dancers. It felt so much smaller without all the people cluttering up the space, and Greg was mildly surprised.

He noticed a busboy cleaning off the counter of the bar, who looked up upon his entrance. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed."

"Is Lyle around?" Greg asked, ignoring the boy's statement.

"Um..." He seemed conflicted. "Do you know each other?"

"Where is he?"

"In back..." the boy said slowly. "Do you want me to go—"

"That would be swell," Greg interrupted, forcing a smile. This boy seemed to be a sycophantic peon who wasn't sure who he wanted to please. But he nodded rapidly at Greg's assertive demand and moved away from the bar and into another room. Greg heard muffled sounds for a moment, and then the door flew open and Lyle stepped in, his figure imposing as he looked around for his visitor.

"Who—oh shit," Lyle muttered, rolling his eyes as he saw Greg. He shook his head. "I knew I should have warned you. What did she do to you?"

"You mean you know her?" Greg seemed appalled.

"Cam is a regular and each time she comes she leaves with a different guy who I never see in here again. I just figured she was a heartbreaker, but you look like you got the shit beat out of you." He pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "So what happened?"

"I don't know... Could I just get money for a cab? She stole my wallet."

"_Damn!_" But Lyle couldn't help but toss his head back in a loud guffaw. "You got _played!_"

"Yeah, yeah. Money?"

Lyle pulled out his wallet. "How much do you need?"

"You should do something about her, you know," said Greg. "She drugged me."

Lyle looked up. "She did?"

"Yeah."

"With what?"

"Dunno."

"Huh..." Lyle muttered, flipping through his wallet. "Will a twenty do it?"

"Sure," Greg said. He was in no position to ask for more. He and Lyle weren't exactly friends, just old acquaintances.

"Here," said Lyle, handing him the bill.

Greg frowned. "You don't seem too concerned about the drug thing."

Lyle smiled wickedly at Greg. "It's a club. Drugs happen here a lot. Nothing I can do about it, I'm just the bartender."

"You know, your institution can get shut down if there's too much drug traffic."

"Again, not my problem," said Lyle. "I'm just the bartender."

There was something suspicious about his smile. "What do you have going on here, man?"

"This place? Nothing. Just a nightclub."

"Then why do you look so smug?" Greg probed.

"Let's just say I know a _lot_ of people who come in here," said Lyle. "And they like to give me a little something extra as a tip."

Greg scanned his arms for tract marks, his hands for nicotine stains, and his eyes for prominent veins, but found nothing. For a moment, he wondered if he would eventually have to ask until Lyle sniffed and all became clear. "You have a cold, Lyle?"

He wiped at his nose. "Nope."

"I see..." His opinion of his old brawny acquaintance dropped a level. "You're going to kill yourself, you know."

"I don't do it on the job," said Lyle. "Don't bother anyone else but myself. So keep the judging to yourself."

"Whatever..." Greg muttered, turning around to leave. He had seen firsthand the effects drugs could have on a person, and it wasn't just the drugs themselves. People had been killed over drug squabbles and money. As far as he was concerned, it was poison.

"How was the trip?" Lyle asked as Greg reached the door.

He tried to remember. "Shitty," he replied, though in truth he had no memory. "Get off the crack, Lyle."

"Thanks for the PSA!" Lyle called bitterly after Greg slammed the door.


	2. Fallout

_**Author's Note:**_ For those who may be confused: "PSA" means "Public Service Announcement," as in the ads that appear on TV that don't advertise anything but tell you something like "Drugs Are Bad" or "You Might Have Cancer." I apologize for the brevity of this chapter. The next one will be longer, but this was the most logical part to break at. Enjoy.

* * *

He caught a cab off of the corner and noticed the man's expression as he climbed into the car, but the driver said nothing. Greg found it amusing that a taxi driver was disturbed by the smell of a charge and not the other way around, but he too said nothing. He gave him the address and the driver took him home.

"Twenty-four fifty," said the cabbie.

"Aw, shit," Greg muttered. "I have a twenty..."

"Twenty-four fifty," the cabbie repeated flatly.

Greg sighed. "Fine, I have some emergency change up in my apartment, if you'll just wait a minute..." The driver's eyes stared piercingly back at him out of the rear view mirror, his expression bored and stern at the same time. Greg sighed. "I'll be right back," he said, and got out of the cab.

He jogged across the street to his apartment and fumbled with the code to the building when someone called out behind him.

"Excuse me," said the authoritative voice that made Greg stop. The young CSI turned and blinked at a blond man in a blue uniform who flashed his badge at him.

"Can I help you, officer?" Greg inquired, trying to keep the mocking lilt from his tone.

"Are you Greg Sanders?" the cop asked.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Did I do something wrong...?"

"I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me, sir," said the cop stiffly.

"Am I under arrest?!" Greg gasped. "Did Camellia try to pin something on me?"

The cop blinked at him, his expression vacant. "You're going to have to come with me, sir," he repeated.

"You going to tell me why?" Greg asked.

"You are not under arrest, sir. Please, just come with me."

Greg slouched and gestured half-heartedly at the cab across the street, behind which, he noted, there was a parked police car with someone in the passenger seat, waiting for them. "I have to pay my cab driver..." he muttered.

"It'll be taken care of," said the officer.

"May I ask why you're hauling me in smelling like garbage?" Greg inquired. "Can't I take a shower first?"

"My orders are to bring you in as soon as you returned home," said the cop. "Sorry." And he looked like he meant it, his nose wrinkling up like a hamster's as he caught scent of Greg.

"OK, but _you're_ going to have to share a car with me," Greg warned, and went quietly with the officer.

* * *

He was escorted into the station with both police on either side, and was not quite sure where they were taking him until they knocked on an office door and someone yelled a gruff, "Come in." The door opened to reveal Captain Jim Brass hunched over a desk and filling out paperwork, looking like he hadn't been home since last month. He looked up and exhaled a sigh of relief upon seeing Greg and nodded at the officers.

"Thank you Olsen. Tillman," he said, acknowledging the both of them. "You can leave us."

And with that, they ducked out, leaving Greg to deal with the detective alone. Greg looked over his shoulder at the door, then up at the detective, baffled. "Just what the hell was that?" he demanded, pointing over his shoulder.

"I'll tell you what the hell that was," said Brass, rising to his feet and seizing his phone. "Last night, I called Grissom to explain what happened and that I had sent you home. Imagine my surprise when I received another phone call a few hours later that told me you _were not_ at your home, nor were you answering your phone, and your car was found abandoned on Lakewood with the keys inside—"

"They stole my _keys_?!" Greg exclaimed. He hadn't even noticed.

Brass continued, despite this interruption. "—and no one seemed to know where you were. I had a frantic Nick Stokes on my hands demanding I report you as a missing person immediately, but he settled for me putting a detail outside of your apartment, as I couldn't officially report you as missing until the twenty-four hours mark which, by the way, is six hours from now."

Greg glanced at his watch and chuckled. "So it is..." he said, noticing that it was almost five o'clock.

"So where the hell were you?" Brass asked, holding the phone to his ear.

Greg was about to reply when Brass held up a hand to hush him and he snapped his mouth shut, almost offended.

"Yeah, Gil, he's here... No, he seems fine. Smells like someone pelted rotten fruit at him, though... You don't have to do that. I'll send him over to you guys just as soon as I get done chewing him out... Well yes, I'm sure they'll all have a few things to say about it, too... He'll see you when shift starts." Brass hung up.

"Well?" Greg asked, slightly irked. "Can I explain now?"

Brass fell back in his chair and placed his fingers together. "Please do."

Greg sighed. "I went out," he said simply. "I needed... a distraction. So I went to a club. Met a pretty girl. Got fucked over. End of story."

"Fucked by a girl, how original," Brass mumbled.

"Please, no jokes," Greg groaned. "I'm tired and my head hurts and I smell like cockroach shit. Can I go home now?"

"Grissom wants to see you when you turn up for shift tonight," Brass warned.

"Fantastic," Greg muttered. "Home?"

Brass rolled his eyes. "Get out of here, before you stink up my office."

"Thank you!" Greg cried with relief. He turned to leave when he hesitated. "Hey, do you know if I can get my car out of impound?"

Brass sighed and scribbled a note before handing it to Greg. "See you later, Greg."

"Thanks," Greg said with a grin, and then he was gone.

* * *

Greg parked his car across the street and leapt out. He felt as if one of those cockroaches had crawled inside his ear and was now eating his brain to make way for the eggs it was going to lay there. He shivered at the thought, and realized he badly needed that shower, not just to get rid of this stench, but also the filthy ideas that were filling his head. He would probably have to burn the clothes he was wearing as well. It was a shame, he was quite fond of the button down shirt he was wearing.

Grumbling, he approached his apartment for the second time that day and punched in the numbers.

"Where the hell have you been?" The demand was accusatory, but icily quiet. And with that accent, it could have only come from one person.

Too exhausted to deal with an angry Nick, Greg reluctantly turned and waved at the Texan. "Well hello, and good afternoon to you too. I'm fine, thanks for asking."

He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, his eyes boring into him like oil drills into the earth. "Answer the question. I've been calling you for hours."

"That'll do no good," said Greg, calmly. "My phone was stolen."

"By who?"

"I don't know, do I?" Greg snapped. "If I did, I'd go and get it back."

The tiniest frown flickered across Nick's features. "Well, where were you all night?"

"In a dumpster," Greg replied. "Can't you smell me?"

"I thought that was the cat…" Nick mumbled.

Something meowed behind him and Greg jumped and looked down to see a scruffy black cat rubbing against his legs as if Greg was its new best friend.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

"What were you doing in a dumpster?" Nick demanded.

"I got dumped there, like all trash," Greg replied snidely.

"By whom?"

"A girl."

"What's her name?"

"Bitchy McFuck-You."

"Greg—" Nick growled warningly through gritted teeth.

"Nick!" Greg returned, equally as threatening.

Each of them stood their ground as they competed for dominance, but after a moment, Nick backed down and stepped towards the wall. The cat continued to rub itself against Greg's calf, meowing as if it wanted something from him. Greg reasoned it was probably because he smelled like cat food.

"Now," Greg began, "I'm going to go inside and take a shower. You can stand out here like an idiot if you want, but clearly I'm fine, so there's nothing for you to be worried about. So if I were you—"

"I heard about what happened last night," Nick interrupted. "Brass said you were a little shook up."

"Yeah, well I'm over it," Greg muttered.

"Why are you so bitter all of a sudden?" Nick asked, his tone strangely submissive and quiet, and Greg couldn't place the emotion behind it. "You used to be so much less… sarcastic."

Greg gave him a sardonic smirk. "But at least I'm still funny." He looked at the cat at his feet. Its fur was patchy in places, and one eye was a cloudy white, while the other was a sharp yellow. It looked rather old and half blind and was probably a stray. Greg kicked it. "Go home, Cat."

He punched in the code to his apartment building again. "And you too… Texan," Greg said, glancing at Nick.

Nick said nothing as Greg entered the building. A scratchy meow that echoed in the hall told Greg that he had been followed by at least one of the things he had told to go home. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Nick was no longer by the glass door and sighed with relief. The last thing he needed was Nick pestering him. He looked down at the cat, which blinked its dual-colored eyes at him and meowed again for good measure.

"Fine," he sighed. "Let's see if I have something for you to eat."

The cat trotted after him as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. The second he opened the door to his place, the cat raced inside ahead of him like a bullet, as if it belonged there. It went straight to his kitchen and sat by the fridge, its tail swishing back and forth expectantly.

Greg chuckled lightly at the cat's persistence as he opened the fridge and scrounged around. He didn't have much, he noticed. Something smelled as if it had died in there. Discovering an old take-out box, he pulled it out. He opened it to the stench of rotting meat and saw that parts of it were green. He seemed to remember ordering liver at restaurant about a month ago with a mildly interesting prosecutor. Or was it two months ago?

The cat meowed eagerly as the stench of the decomposing meat wafted into its nostrils.

"You want it, you can have it," Greg muttered, pulling out a plate and lopping the liver onto it. He put it on the floor and the cat greedily attacked it. Greg emitted a curt laugh as he watched. "You're fond of liver, huh? Well then, I guess you begged the right guy. So what am I going to call you, then? You don't seem to have an owner, because if you did you'd probably be in better shape. You look in just about as bad a shape as your meal, little guy…"

As if in response, the cat looked up at him and licked its whiskers before abruptly returning to its meal, even though Greg still saw a piece of meat on its nose. He smiled.

As the cat ate, Greg stripped off his clothes and dumped them in a plastic bag to be disposed of later. He climbed into the shower and allowed the water to pelt his shoulders. He turned it up so it was scalding, and he felt his skin erupting with heat with every drop that crashed against his body. He scrubbed madly at his hair, desperate to rid himself of the stench, and lather-rinse-repeated three times until he was satisfied. He seized his soap and scoured his skin with it until it was raw. Finally, he stepped out into a bathroom so consumed by steam, he could barely see two inches in front of him. But by groping around, he eventually found the door and it all spilled out into the hall.

As the mist cleared, he saw his new friend sitting out in the hall waiting for him, his tail swishing back and forth against the floor. Greg frowned at him. "You know… you could use a shower too," he said.

The cat had no idea that by accepting Greg's free liver, he would have to endure the torturous experience dreaded by all cats: soap and water.

* * *

A day that begins by waking up in a dumpster is bound to not be a very good day. After struggling with a frantic cat in a bathtub, Greg had passed out on his bed and was only awoken when something near his lap began to vibrate. At first, he thought it was part of his dream, which was a rather embarrassing one involving Nick, until claws dug into his thigh, successfully waking him up.

Grousing, his hand perked up and his nose twitched as he watched his new pet claw at the sheets and walk around in a circle before settling down on the bed again and wrapping his tail around himself. Soon enough, the vibrations began again, and Greg could hear the low rumble of a contented feline.

His head fell back into his pillow and he stared at the ceiling for a moment before he even thought to check the time. 1:00 blinked at him in a dangerous red and Greg's eyes doubled in size.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, kicking the cat as he leapt out of bed. The beast swiped at him angrily for disturbing its slumber, but Greg ignored it and pulled on his jeans as he made his way into the kitchen and groped for his landline phone.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he muttered over and over, dialing quickly. It rang three times before someone answered.

"Grissom."

"I'm alive, I'm OK, I'm not in a dumpster, please don't send any cops to my house, I will be there in thirty minutes, just… don't freak out!" Greg said all of this as quickly as physically possible.

"Greg, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me!" Greg hissed. "Sorry, I crashed, overslept and all—"

"Greg, slow down!" said Grissom. "Why don't you take the night off?"

"I took last night off… Well, half of it at any rate," Greg replied, though he did pause in his frantic activities to get ready.

"So take this one too. You haven't had a good day."

"No, I guess I haven't," Greg said. "But Grissom—"

"No buts! Just don't end up in a dumpster again."

Greg scoffed. "Yeah, sure thing boss."

He hung up and stared at his phone. His cat leapt up onto the back of his couch and watched him out of his good eye. "So now what?" he asked the feline.

The cat simply meowed in response.

"Helpful," said Greg.

The cat leapt to the floor and trotted over to the door before meowing again.

Greg chuckled. "You think I should leave the house."

The cat blinked at him.

"Fine," he said. "I know exactly where I should go, too."


	3. Alabama Flower

_**Author's Note:**_ For those of you who predicted dark, I can tell you that your predictions are quite accurate. ;o)

* * *

The club was as alive as ever at two in the morning. The scent of beer and sweat permeated the air, and one or two girls tried to pull him into a dance, but all Greg wanted was the bar. He wove in between the hot bodies as the pounding music aggravated the headache that wasn't entirely gone from earlier. He found an empty stool and took a seat. Lyle's back was turned, but soon the bartender pivoted and caught sight of Greg. He seemed wary at first, but then he smiled and approached Greg.

"Back again, I see," said the bartender.

"Wild horses couldn't keep me," Greg replied with a smirk. "You off the junk?"

"That's a heroin nickname," Lyle chuckled. "And I'll quit. Starting tomorrow. You know, alcohol is a drug too. Just because it's legal doesn't make it any healthier."

"Shut up and bring me my scotch."

Lyle rolled his eyes but nodded and he was off. Greg's eyes wandered, taking in the crowd, scanning it for the woman he _knew_ had to be there… And sure enough, there she was, sitting at the end of the bar in a very revealing hot pink tube top as she laughed a little too loudly at the jokes of a scrawny red-headed twenty-something kid.

Greg's eyes narrowed as his blood began to boil and Lyle showed up with his drink again. "Here y'are… What are you starin' at…?" He followed Greg's gaze. "Ah. You gonna call her out?"

"Thinkin' about it," said Greg, his eyes never leaving the cocky brunette.

"Be careful," Lyle warned. "She may be a bitch, but she's a good tipper. If you know what I mean."

Greg was too focused on his target to understand the innuendo of that statement. "Yeah, I can handle her," he said before sliding off his stool and sidling on up behind her as she flirted with her unwitting victim. He tapped her on the shoulder and with a flip of her perfect sienna hair, she turned.

"Yes—oh _shit_," she cursed, her smile faltering at the sight of Greg.

But his strengthened. "Hey, babe. I think you owe me money. And some credit cards. And a cell phone."

She glanced back at the confused redhead and then to Greg again. "What are you doing back here? Most guys don't come back to the scene of the crime."

"Well I'm a criminalist, so crime scenes are kinda my thing." He held out his hand expectantly. "My stuff, bitch?"

"Excuse me, Cam, is he bothering you?" asked the redhead, who Greg actually doubted was over twenty-one. "Because I can totally kick his ass for you."

She gave him a pout and put a hand on his cheek. "Oh, you are too adorable. But that's OK, sweetie, I can handle. Finish your drink."

He put the beverage to his lips when Greg called, "I wouldn't if I were you. She spiked it, you'll be out of it in five minutes."

Though skeptical, the boy lowered the glass and eyed it, nervously.

"Considering how fast it worked orally, I'm thinking that your drug of choice is either ecstasy or GHB."

Camellia turned swiftly to the redhead for some damage control. "Sweetie, I wouldn't do that to you," she cooed sweetly. "He's just a jealous ex, pay no heed to him."

"You know, I should have you arrested," Greg growled, seizing her wrist.

"Let go of me!" Camellia demanded.

"Security!" the boy yelped, but he wasn't loud enough to be heard by security over the music and everyone else kept dancing.

"OK, _look_!" Camellia hissed, leaping to her feet and shooting daggers at Greg. Though he still held her wrist, she used it to lead him away from the redhead and into an alcove, which was slightly quieter than the main room. "_Yes_, I robbed you. Get over it and leave me alone!" She whipped her hand out of his grip.

"I should have seen it before…" said Greg. "That accent? You're not from Alabama, you're from Queens!"

"You ever been to Queens, sugar?" Camellia asked, folding her arms and putting her weight onto one foot in a very New Yorker fashion. "Maybe I _wanted_ to be from a small town in 'Bama, K? Can ya blame a girl?"

"I can, and I am," said Greg. "Give me my money, Camellia. Which I'm fairly certain is not your real name."

"What if I told you it was?" she asked.

"Right, just like you're from Alabama. Give me my stuff and I won't press charges, OK?"

"And what if I said I sold it already?" she asked.

"You moved goods in twenty-four hours _and_ had time to pull off another job?" Greg cocked an eyebrow. "If that's the truth, then I'll be really impressed. My stuff. _Now,_ please."

She rolled her eyes and opened her purse, in which Greg could see three other phones that he was certain weren't all hers. "Em… what's it look like again? As you can see, I—"

"Give me that!" Greg demanded, yanking her purse away and rifling through it.

"Don't you know it's rude to go through a lady's purse like that?" Camellia asked.

"Aha!" Greg exclaimed upon unearthing his cell phone. He saw he had seven missed calls and rolled his eyes before tucking the phone away in his pocket. "Take _that_, you thief!"

"I don't have your wallet," she confessed. "That's back at my place. You're outa luck, buddy, unless you want to come home with me."

"No thanks," said Greg, in a much more cheerful mood. "There was only about ten bucks in cash in it anyway, and I've already cancelled all my cards." He looked up at her and handed her back her purse. "So what _did_ you slip me, anyway? Out of curiosity?"

She smiled. "Why, did you like it?"

"I seem to recall a vague sense of happiness, yeah," he said.

"Valium can cause anterograde amnesia," said Camellia.

"Valium, eh?" Greg was intrigued. "That was it?"

She nodded. "Nausea, too, that's a side effect that made you ruin my new shoes."

Greg paused for a moment, turning the seed of an idea over in his mind before planting it deep in the soil of his brain. "Do you… happen to have anymore?"

She was suddenly very interested. "So you _did_ like it."

"A drug that can make me forget about myself for a while and leave me with a vague sense of happiness when I wake up again? Sure, I guess. Plus, it's Valium. I can handle Valium. It's what depressed housewives take. No one gets shot over Valium, do they?"

"I don't know…" Camellia said slowly, a smile spreading across her lips. But she began digging through her purse again until she pulled out a tiny orange bottle and shook its contents. "Aw, but you're out of cash."

"Consider the wallet you stole from me your payment. And the fact that I'm not arresting for dealing _and_ assault _and_ theft."

"Why my good sir, are you blackmailing me?" Camellia asked with a hint of aroused intrigue.

Greg hadn't thought about it that way. "Give me the drugs," he said, and she handed them over, seemingly amused by his behavior.

"I had no idea you were this dirty, sugar. Otherwise, I would have never targeted you."

"Why did you?" Greg asked. "Target me, I mean."

"You were depressed and you were alone," Camellia said simply. "The loners are always easy. Plus, you looked like a decent guy. Sweet. Trusting. Naïve. I knew I could use that."

Greg chewed on his lip and stared at the bottle in his hand and rolled it between his fingers. _Naïve…_he repeated in his head. He looked up at her again. "Is this all you got?"

She chuckled. "My, my, you _are_ anxious, aren't you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head and glancing out of the alcove over her shoulder at the nervous redheaded boy at the bar, who was still eying his drink warily. "Where do you get your stuff?"

"That's not your business," she replied.

"When can you get more?"

"Maybe… next week?" she replied.

He nodded, his fingers closing around the bottle. "Good." And then, he marched out of the alcove and over to the bar, knocking the drink all over it and spilling it on the boy's jeans.

"You asshole!" the kid exclaimed.

"Ooh, sorry, my bad," Greg said, with no hint of apologetic tones. "I guess you're gonna have to go home and change your jeans. Tragic. But not as tragic as you getting kicked out of here for being under age." He nodded at the exit. "Get the hell out of here, kid."

The boy looked like he wanted to pick a fight, but seemed to think better of it and hightailed it out of there, leaving Greg laughing.

"You son of a bitch!" he heard Camellia exclaim behind him and he turned around to see her with her hands on her hips. "He was an easy hit! Daddy's little boy, with a yacht and everything. He could afford to lose a few bucks!"

Greg held up the bottle. "This is no longer yours." He pocketed it. "It's mine. And you won't be back here tomorrow, will you Camellia?"

"So that's why you took it? So I'd be dry?" She seethed. "Are you even going to _use_ it?"

"No," said Greg. "It's toxic."

"Tell that to the pill-popping housewives," Camellia growled. But then, she smiled. "You'll try it."

"How do you know?" Greg challenged.

"Because one day, sugar, you're going to get tired of playing the hero. Gimme your phone."

"You aren't gonna steal it again, are you?" Greg asked.

She shook her head. "Just give me the phone, querido."

Greg frowned. "Are you Hispanic?"

"Puerto Rican, on my mother's side," she replied. "I just want to program my number. So you know how to reach me, if you want more."

"I won't," he insisted. "Except to buy you out."

"Right," she said. "That gets a little expensive, doesn't it? You gonna keep saving these kids forever?"

Greg chewed on his lip, but said nothing.

She laughed. "You get a freebie this time, because of the wallet thing, and the punching you in the stomach thing, and the whole blackmail thing. But next time, I expect cash. Because blackmail gets real old, real fast, and I know a couple of guys who could take care of you, if I asked them to."

"Hey, I'm a nice guy, right?" Greg asked, handing Camellia his phone.

"Oh yeah," she replied, punching in her number. "A real sucker." She handed the phone back to Greg. He didn't look at it.

"I won't call this number," Greg said, blinking. "I have no need for it."

"Then why did you give me your phone, baby?" She was smirking, because they both knew the answer to that.

"Just in case," he said. "You know, if I want to arrest you for all your charges." Greg finally looked down at the phone and saw that she had filed it under "Cam."

"Did you know that the Camellia is the state flower of Alabama?" she asked with a wink.

"That's really not your name, is it?" Greg asked.

"Ah, cariño, that's for me to know, and you to never guess."

And with another dramatic hair flip, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, with Greg watching her retreating back. And Greg was left alone with the pills.

He had no more business being at that club, and was averse to lingering, so decided he would head home and feed his new cat, which was probably hungry again. He needed to pick up some real cat food for that thing, but that would have to wait until the stores were open. There were so many things that he needed to do, it was beginning to bring back his headache.

He moved to the exit and slid out into the fresh night air, heading for his car, when someone grabbed his arm. Greg stopped and looked up to see that a man who was much larger than Lyle and had a red crew cut was clutching his arm. He wore a polo shirt and blue jeans and looked like the meanest rich kid Greg had ever seen. He tried hard not to laugh at the freckles on the guy's face.

"Did you spill my brother's drink?" he demanded.

"Oh!" Greg muttered. "So you're his brother. I get the hair thing, now." He pulled his arm out of the burly redhead's grip and dusted himself off. "Look, I did your brother a favor. That girl is trouble. She spiked his drink, was probably gonna—oof!"

Greg's exclamation came after an abrupt blow to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him completely and he stumbled backwards into the wall. He tried to speak, but as the air had fled his lungs, he had no means to do so, so his mouth simply opened and closed in airless gasps.

"You mess with my brother, you mess with me, punk."

_Wham!_ Right across the jaw, so hard Greg had to open his mouth to make sure it wasn't broken.

"Fuck!" He'd found his voice again, and the air he so desperately needed, even if he did sound wheezy. "What's your problem? I saved his ass—"

Another one, to the temple, and Greg was immediately disoriented, flashes of light exploding before his vision as he staggered, drunkenly. He tried to blink to clear his head, but a blow to the temple is not easily ignored. Greg brought his fingers up to the side of his head, inwardly panicking that he was hemorrhaging even as he stood there, and then the guy's knee connected with his stomach again and he doubled over.

"_Christ!_" But the word was interrupted by a staccato "I" and sounded almost like a sob. "You might have killed me, you know," he snarled, spitting out some of his blood to the ground. He straightened up to see the two brothers gloating and chuckling like alpha males.

"That's it," Greg rumbled, wiping his mouth. "If I'm gonna die because of _you_ assholes… then I'm tired of trying to help idiots."

And he landed a punch of his own, right in the older brother's face, and there was blood everywhere as Greg shook out his throbbing hand. "Dammit, I knew that's not how you should hit someone!" He looked up to see that the man who had been so tough seconds earlier was crying now. Large wet sobs were pouring out of him as the tears mingled with the blood on his face.

"You broke by dose!" he whined, his little brother putting his hands around his shoulder.

Greg, who was by no means unscathed, began to massage his sore jaw. "Yeah, well, don't pick a fight you can't finish, yuppie."

And just like that, the two brothers retreated with their tails between their legs. With them gone, Greg allowed himself to relax and feel the sharp pain that was throbbing in his torso, jaw and head. He leaned against the wall for support, his fingers moving over his abdominals, then his chest to search for broken ribs. Everything seemed OK. The guy was mostly talk anyway, and if the blow to his temple had been lethal, Greg surmised that he would have probably been unconscious by that point anyway.

Still, it hurt like a bitch.

Groaning, Greg made his way across the street to the parking lot and found his car, which, he was very grateful to discover, hadn't been stolen. He tried to ignore the rhythmic pounding in his head like bongo drums and focus on the road. Finally, he made it home and climbed up the stairs to his apartment, where he found the cat waiting for him again.

The feline said nothing as Greg walked through the living room and to his bathroom, where he pulled out his medication and looked at his face in the mirror.

"Aw, _man_!" he moaned, noticing the tinge of brown and purple that was forming on his cheek bone. "They're gonna ask about that at work tomorrow…" He tried to get a better look at it by turning to the side, but gave up. Something buzzed in his pocket and he remembered he had his phone back, so he reached inside. His hands brushed against something cool and cylindrical and his heart skipped a beat as he pulled out a tiny orange bottle instead. He stared at it for a moment as his phone continued to vibrate before setting the pills down and reaching again for his phone.

Not thinking, he said, "Hello?"

"Asshole, you're in possession of a stolen phone and I—"

"Nick, is that you?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Greg?" Another pause. "Hey, wait, you said you lost your phone!"

"I did," Greg said. "Just got it back." Something beeped at him. "And damn, it's on really low battery."

"Greg, while I have you on the phone, I, uh… I wanted to, um, apologize, for—"

"Can't hear you Nick, I have terrible signal," Greg lied.

"Greg, I was wondering if I could come—"

"And the battery is fucking low. And I mean l—" He hung up and turned off his phone.

He slid the machine back into his pocket and looked at his reflection in the mirror again.

He didn't like what he saw.

His eyes narrowed as he seized a few random bottles and made his way to the kitchen, grumbling all the time. "Serves me right for just trying to help, I get my ass kicked every fucking time I stick my nose where it doesn't belong, or someone ends up dead or I end up getting yelled at or all fucking three."

His cat leapt up onto his kitchen table and meowed at him.

"Here, here, Liver!" Greg cried in response to the feline. He reached into his fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, uncapping it and sitting at the table where he had dropped all the pill bottles he had taken from the bathroom. He looked up at his cat.

"I'm sorry, did you want one?" he asked, gesturing at the beer.

The cat simply blinked. Greg could see himself in its cloudy white eye.

"OK, more for me," said Greg. He looked at the bottles he had randomly snagged. _Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Valium…_

Valium.

Greg snorted and grabbed the Excedrin, popping a pill into his hand, and subsequently his mouth, which he downed with a sip of his beer. He looked at his cat again, but did not speak. The two of them had a staring contest for a while, until Greg remembered the feline was blind in one eye, and would therefore most likely always win.

Blinking, he looked instead at his assortment of pill bottles. He organized them in a row on the table from the least potent to the most potent.

_Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Valium…_

That wasn't right.

_Tylenol, Advil, Excedrin, Valium…_

Advil was actually stronger than he gave it credit for, so…

_Tylenol, Excedrin, Advil, Valium…_

He gave up and pushed the other three bottles off to the side, placing the orange bottle in the center of the table. He moved down in his chair, resting his hands on the table and his chin on top of them as he watched the bottle.

It seemed harmless enough. Just another addition to the medicine cabinet.

He was a chemist. He knew what Valium was. Diazapam. A Benzodiazepine. Muscle relaxant and anti-anxiety medication. Side effects included somnolence, impaired motor function, and reflex tachycardia. Sixty-four percent of rats tested would self administer. Sixty-four percent addictive.

Pill-popping housewives.

Vague sense of happiness…

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He gathered up all of the pills and headed back to his bathroom, where he pulled open the mirror cabinet and shoved them all inside. He stared at his own reflection again.

_"Why did you? Target me, I mean."_

_"You looked like a decent guy. Sweet. Trusting. Naïve. I knew I could use that."_

A lot of people used that.

And Greg was tired of being used.

He sighed as he turned around and marched back into the hall. The cat was still on his kitchen table. Greg didn't think of chasing him off. It's not like he ate anything at that table anyway. He did, however, grab his beer and plop down on the couch to channel surf. The pain medication did its work, quieting the bongo drums like noise canceling headphones. Greg knew it was still there, he just couldn't feel it. And that was fine with him. Soon enough, the cat joined him, leaping up onto the couch.


	4. Dreaming of Stars

_**Author's Note:**_ Again, apologies for the short chapter. But enjoy.

* * *

At some point, Greg fell asleep. He didn't remember falling asleep, he only remembered waking up to a buzzer reverberating in his apartment. And the cat was curled up on his lap. Brushing his new pet aside, Greg yawned and then winced as he stretched out his aching jaw muscles. He rolled his eyes before reaching up to rub the sleep from them and rose to his feet, hitting the intercom.

"Yeah?"

"Greg, it's me. Can I come up?"

He sighed. He knew he couldn't avoid Nick forever. "Fine," he said, and buzzed the Texan in. He leaned against the door and watched his cat, who was moving to the kitchen, as if expecting food. When Greg didn't follow, he poked his head out of the kitchen, almost accusingly.

"Sorry, I'm out of rotting meat," said Greg.

And moments later, as predicted, someone was banging on his door.

"Calm down!" Greg called, opening the door. Nick Stokes was chalk white as he looked at Greg, who stared back calmly. "What's the matter with you?"

He sighed, shook his head and shrugged in reply. "Can I come in?"

"I guess..." said Greg, stepping aside to allow him to enter.

Nick took long strides into Greg's living room as the younger man closed the door behind him. And then, at the end of his track, Nick turned to face Greg. "You're hurt," he noted.

Greg's hand flew to the bruise on his cheek. "Oh, yeah, um... Funny story, actually—"

"Was it the guy who stole your phone?"

"No," said Greg. "Just some prep-school kid with a bully complex."

Nick was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising up and down. It was clear that something was on his mind, but Greg couldn't figure out what it was.

"You really need to stop worrying about me," he told the Texan.

"You've been beat up twice in two days," said Nick. "Before that, you saw a woman get shot. I think I have every right to worry about you."

"Hey, the first time, I wasn't beat up, just mugged," Greg clarified. "And as for tonight, well, I was the one who sent _him_ off crying, so I'd call that a _good_ night."

"You call getting into a fight a good night?" Nick asked.

"I call _winning_ a fight a good night, yeah," said Greg.

Nick was stern. "Are you sure you're OK?" he asked.

Greg saw a tinge of purple creeping up under Nick's collar. "Are you off?" Greg asked, looking at his watch.

"I'm on a break," he replied, a little too quickly.

He bit his lip. "Grissom sent you home for that bruise, didn't he? What happened?"

Nick tugged at his shirt and turned away from Greg. "It doesn't matter."

Greg frowned. "You obviously came here for a reason, and it wasn't just to check on me. I told you about my battle scars, now you tell me about yours."

When Nick turned back to Greg, his eyes were glistening. Then, he scoffed. "I was careless," he explained, "at a crime scene. And for about five seconds, some guy's hand was around my throat, and..." Greg's frown deepened, but he said nothing as Nick grasped for the words. The Texan shook his head and laughed, out of the sheer need for it. "I had precisely one thought. Just one."

"What?" Greg asked.

But whatever that thought was, Nick wasn't ready to divulge the inner workings of his mind. "Nothing, I mean... Greg, bad things can happen to anyone at a crime scene, OK? I just want you to know that what happened to that woman... It's not your fault that she died."

"But you just said that what happened to you occurred because you were careless..." Greg said quietly, feeling his heart leaping up into his throat and trying to ignore it. Why was it that Nick could always make him face things he never wanted to face? Maybe Nick could fix it. Maybe Nick could help. "I was careless, too."

Nick took a sharp breath but held it a moment, as if he didn't know what to say.

And that's when Greg realized that he couldn't make everything all better. Greg wasn't sure why he had believed, even for a moment, that Nick could solve his problems with a few simple words, but suddenly he understood that it was impossible.

"Unless there's something else..." Greg began, "I think you should go."

The cat trotted out of the kitchen and sat on the middle of the floor, swishing its tail again as it took in both Nick and Greg. The Texan looked from the cat to Greg.

"You kept it?"

Greg shrugged. "I don't know, he just kind of... hangs around."

"Did you name it?" Nick asked.

"Yeah," said Greg.

"What's it called?"

"Liver."

Nick frowned. "What?"

"Like the organ. Liver," Greg explained.

Nick looked back at the cat. "Kind of a gross name for a cat, don't you think?"

"He's kind of a gross cat," Greg replied. "I mean, look at him."

The feline was in the process of licking its paw when it began to wheeze. After a moment, it stopped, and a small ball of black fur tumbled from its mouth.

A wan smile graced Nick's lips. "I see what you mean." He faced Greg and his eyes were wide. He took a step towards the younger man, who instinctively stepped backwards and his back was against the door. Nick stopped. "We do what we can with what we got," he said. "And we make mistakes. But the fact of the matter is, we're still here. That has to be worth something, right?"

Greg swallowed to open up his constricting throat and his hand groped for the doorknob. He turned it and pulled the door open. "Are you done?"

Nick sighed, and nodded, heading towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"You will," said Greg, and he closed the door behind Nick and leaned against it. Inch by inch, he shrank, his body sliding against the door until he was on the ground hugging his knees. Nick's words echoed in his head, and he thought of all the mistakes that had been made in his past, and not all of them were his own mistakes.

It was a mistake for Warrick to have left Holly Gribbs alone.

It was a mistake for Catherine to have placed that chemical next to the fume box.

It was a mistake for Nick to have gone to that false crime scene Gordon had set up.

It was a mistake for Grissom to have allowed Sara to become a target.

And it was a mistake for Sara to have left.

With the exception of Warrick's mistake, these were all nonfatal. But they were still painful. Even he had managed to survive his own mistakes. He tried to pinpoint when it had all began to go wrong. It wasn't the lab explosion. That had rattled him, but if he'd have just gotten over it, he could have handled things in the lab. No, it must have been when he had made the move to field work. He had underestimated how dark and dangerous the real world was outside of a sterile lab.

Fatal mistakes. Warrick had made the fatal mistake.

Greg wondered if their old friend had been on Nick's mind when the Texan talked about being strangled earlier. They never talked about it. No one ever _talked_ about it. Because talking about it would be acknowledging his absence. And Nick couldn't do that. Ever since it happened, Nick had been unhinged. Sharper, more withdrawn, distracted by his job... His protection over Greg had definitely grown, and it bothered the younger man, especially as he couldn't understand why. Maybe Nick believed that with Warrick gone, Greg was all he had left.

Liver padded quietly over to Greg and rubbed against his knees, meowing imploringly for food. Greg reached out dazedly, mechanically stroking the course, patchy fur as his mind tried to digest everything that seemed to be going on wrong in his life.

It could all be linked to one, simple thing: he tried too hard to be the hero. Camellia had been right after all.

But had she been right about everything?

Greg's eyes focused on the hall that led to his bathroom and knew exactly what lay beyond the closed door. Drugs. Most of them, fairly harmless. If he was careful, Valium could be fairly harmless, too. If he was careful. And Greg was always careful.

Valium was used to treat anxiety and Greg was anxious. Technically, he was just filling a need. Any doctor would have said the same thing. It was the most logical decision. He looked at his cat.

"What do you think, Liver?"

The cat did not reply.

"I don't think it could hurt, either."

He rose to his feet and sighed before making his way to the bathroom and opening the door. He saw himself in the mirror again, the shiny new bruise on his cheek a constant reminder of the price of chivalry. He scoffed and opened the mirror to see the orange bottle staring at him, tauntingly.

_It's one little pill_, Greg reasoned with himself. _Maybe it'll help you sleep better. Distract you a bit. Calm you down._

He chewed on his lip. He knew the drug had a chance of being addictive, but he was only going to take one pill, this one time anyway, so he didn't need to worry about that. And the fact of the matter is, there were plenty of worse drugs out there than Valium that he would _never_ touch. Lyle was worse off, with the cocaine. No. Valium was harmless. One pill was harmless.

He took out the bottle and uncapped it, and a tiny pill fell into his open palm. He stared at it, with the tiny V in the middle of it, before replacing the bottle in the cupboard behind his mirror. He tossed it in his mouth and downed it with a glass of water. He stared at himself in the mirror. He waited for the drug to take effect. He knew from experience that it would happen fast.

He made his way towards his bedroom and turned off all the lights, making sure, first, that his blackout curtains were tightly drawn. He put his cell phone on the end table and crawled into his bed, staring at the wall.

Soon enough, colored swirls began to dance across the plane white surface he concentrated on, reminding him of shooting stars or some cosmic parade. Time became irrelevant and he became intensely fascinated with the wall. He closed his eyes tight then opened them again and saw the explosions of spots spatter the wall as if he had thrown paint at it. A small smile crept onto his face as he exhaled, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes.

There was nothing he needed to be doing, and no one he was particularly worried about. Everyone was perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, and he understood that now, with a strange clarity he hadn't had before. If Nick was upset about Warrick, well, he would deal with it. It didn't concern Greg. In fact, nothing concerned Greg. Not when he was in the warm, comfy folds of his Valium high.

His mind was still fairly coherent. He could string thoughts together, but he couldn't focus on them for long. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, which seemed slower than normal, but again, this didn't concern him.

Greg liked not having concerns.

There was a ringing that echoed in his head and it took him a moment to be able to figure out that it was actually coming from his cell phone and not his imagination. He lazily reached for his phone, unsure of how long he had been lying on his bed. His arm felt heavy, and moving was becoming increasingly difficult.

He held the phone to his ear. "'Lo?" he greeted.

"Greg?" came an ethereal voice from the other end.

"Who's this?" he asked, curiously, although it could have been a serial killer and he wouldn't have cared.

"It's Sara. I heard you had a little trouble at a crime scene the other day. I just wanted to make sure that everything was OK with you. Also... you haven't called me in a while..."

"Oh yeah..." Greg mumbled, stretching out his facial muscles. "S'on my ta-do list."

"So how are you?" Her voice echoed in his ears.

"Good, good," he said. He felt as if he were talking much slower than her, but shrugged it off. "Got a cat. You like cats?"

"Cats are OK..." she replied. "What's its name?"

"Name's Liver."

"Like the organ?"

He smiled. "Yup."

He heard her sigh. "But you're doing alright, then?"

"Never better," he said honestly.

"You sound... a little odd."

"Sleepy..." Greg said with a yawn. "Caught me at a..." He forgot to finish the sentence, until Sara probed him.

"Bad time?"

"Funny time," Greg corrected. "Just... it's funny. You'd laugh."

"Then tell me," she urged.

He rubbed his eyes and a grin spread across his features. "How's Frisco?"

"Sunny," she replied.

"Hope you're having a good time..." he mumbled. And he meant it. "Frisco is fun."

"Are you sure you're OK?" Sara asked. "Last time we talked, you were still bitter about the whole thing..."

"Aw, I've no reason to be, that was stupid," said Greg. "You're just looking for what makes you happy, right?"

"... Right..." She seemed slightly confused. "You sound really tired. Maybe it would be better if I let you get some sleep."

"K," Greg said. "Whatever works for you, Sar..." He yawned.

"OK, Greg. I'm glad you're OK. And you sound happy. That's good."

"Yup," Greg agreed.

"I'll talk to you later," she said, and then there was a click.

Greg was still holding the phone to his ear. It took effort to consciously put down the phone and he closed his eyes, listening to his breathing, his mind completely blank. It was a relief not to be able to think. Greg surmised that if someone had asked him to go skydiving at that moment, he would jump at the chance. What was the danger in skydiving anyway?

Sooner or later, he grew rather tired, and he found his lids growing heavy. He hadn't moved in what felt like hours, because it felt like too much of a hassle. Instead, he stared at his bedroom ceiling and tried to remember what stars looked like. He painted constellations in his mind, and none of them were correct, but it was his own personal Zodiac, and it was brilliant. Works of art materialized in his mind, creative animals adorned the sky above his bed, and one even bore a striking resemblance to Buddha. But in the morning, Greg would not remember the masterpieces he had created in his mind.

And soon enough, he was fast asleep and dreaming of stars.


	5. The Rabbit Hole

_**Author's Note:**_ Super long chapter today, so enjoy.

* * *

Despite the fact that he slept for twelve hours after that, Greg woke up feeling rather lethargic. But three cups of coffee later, he was at the lab, working at normal speed again. As predicted, Grissom and Catherine both expressed concern at the sight of his bruise, but Greg, in a much better mood, shrugged it off easily. After his relaxing session the night before, he felt oddly refreshed, as if all the worries and cares had been drained from him.

This feeling didn't last long.

He was sorting through crime scene photos when he noticed Nick stop out in the hall. He had accidentally bumped into a young, blonde lab tech Greg didn't recognize. Greg found himself watching them, Nick's hand on her shoulder as he talked to her with that big smile he only used on people he was trying to impress. Greg's bottom lip somehow found its way between his teeth as he watched the muted exchange. She nodded vigorously at a question he asked and answered enthusiastically. Greg unconsciously clenched his hands into fists. Nick let go of her shoulder and gestured down the hall, raising his eyebrows at her. She nodded again, and seemed to thank him, placing her hand on his bicep, before going in the direction he had gestured. Nick turned to watch her retreat, and his eyes moved up and down...

"Ow!" Greg exclaimed as a bead of blood dropped onto his tongue. He released his lip, which had been held captive by his teeth and shook his head, trying to focus on his job so he didn't think too hard about Nick. And that girl. He would have to figure out who she was, so he could...

So he could what?

He closed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. Why was he so tense all of a sudden? He had work to do.

He raked his hand through his hair and tried hard not to think, but every time he regained his focus, thoughts flooded back in to distract him. Thoughts of Nick, of Camellia, of that woman in the white dress, of the Valium, of his trip, of how he would never take the pills again, of how solving this murder wouldn't bring the victim back to life, and how ugly the world was outside these walls, and how beautiful Nick's eyes seemed when they were focused only on Greg, and—

"Dammit!" he exclaimed, throwing the photos across the table. He fell down into a nearby chair and took deep breaths. He had been fine, up until he had witnessed that scene between Nick and the lab tech. He wasn't sure why it was bothering him so much. He had long since come to terms with his feelings for the Texan. He'd had them for so long, he was almost used to the dull pang that would poke his heart when he saw Nick smile. It wasn't an issue; Greg had accepted that Nick was not the type to go for guys like Greg, or guys in general, for that matter.

Maybe he needed to go back to that club. Get drunk. Get laid. Maybe Camellia would be there. Maybe she could help him out on both those points.

Greg closed his eyes and thought about the little orange bottle in his medicine cabinet that he had sworn he would never touch again. One pill had been harmless, just as he had predicted. And he'd had his trip, and it was over. No more pills. He would wash them down the sink as soon as he got home, just to make sure of it.

"You done with those photos—"

Greg looked up to see Catherine's eyes all over the table, upon which the photos he had been sorting were now haphazardly scattered.

"It's part of a system I have," he explained swiftly to cover his ass.

"It better be," said Catherine, icily. "You've been working on this for an hour, Greg. Pick up the pace already, this should have taken you twenty minutes! If it's not done when I get back from my break, I'll do it myself, and _you_ will be the one to sort through vomit and excrement for a key!"

"Yes ma'am!" Greg replied, and she was gone.

He sighed and looked at the mess in front of him. The stress was beginning to build, but he dealt with it. And he would continue to deal with it on his own, without the assistance of any anxiolytics. Greg was still very anti-drugs. For the most part.

_Except for that one time I did Valium,_ he thought to himself sarcastically.

He would not take any more pills.

He would sort out these photos in twenty minutes.

He would not dwell on Nick Stokes.

He would not think of Camellia.

He would not be bothered by the atrocities in the world.

* * *

A few hours later, smelling like excrement and vomit, Greg had failed at every single one of his resolutions but the first one. Thus far. He stood poised over his bathroom sink, gripping the edge of it in one hand and the orange bottle in the other. The water was running, and the cap was off of the bottle, and all he had to do was tip it, and it was bye-bye drunk pills.

And yet, for some reason, he couldn't tip the bottle.

It wasn't that he _needed_ them, it was that he _wanted_ them. If one pill could relax him as well as it did the night before, then another could easily do the same. It was definitely helpful, and he was definitely tense. The more he took, the less the effects, so he would need to be wary of that, but so long as he did it sparingly, then there was no harm. There couldn't be any harm. Not if he was smart. Not if he controlled his doses, and how frequently he administered it. In controlled doses, Valium was shown to help dozens of patients who needed it. If he just... didn't take more than a few milligrams at a time, he would be OK.

Greg relied on logic more than anything else, and it was for that reason that he deduced that he _didn't_ have an addictive personality. He had never been particularly addicted to anything in the past, physically or psychologically, and he was rather proud of his record.

Valium was a drug, a Benzodiazepine, an anxiolytic in point of fact. A controlled substance. A prescription was needed in order to obtain it. Unless one obtained it illegally. Easily abused. Sixty-four percent addictive. But Greg did not have an addictive personality. Greg was a chemist. He knew how to measure doses. He knew what he was doing.

Liver lazily slithered into the bathroom and looked up at him, curiously.

"I know what I'm doing," he said to the cat.

Why did _that_ sound so familiar?

"But I do know what I'm doing. I've worked with chemicals before. I know how drugs work. How they trick people. I'm smarter than the drugs."

Greg was smarter than the tiny pills in the orange bottle. And Greg was talking to a cat, as if expecting an answer.

"I must be losing my mind..." he muttered, but he stared at the pill bottle in his hand all the same. His gaze rose to make eye contact with himself in the mirror. "I know what I'm doing," he repeated with confidence.

Just like he had said to Nick the night the woman in the white dress had been killed.

Greg gritted his teeth. A thought like that deserved to be banished by the Valium Fairy.

He turned off the water and tapped a pill out of the bottle defiantly into his open palm. His hands closed over the medication as he looked into the mirror again.

"I know what I'm doing."

* * *

Within four weeks, he was out. By the third week, he had upped the ante, taking twice his normal dosage. He recognized the risk. The original single pill had been losing its charm. He had predicted this; he had expected it to happen. But over the third week, it became less and less effective. Two worked quite well after that. And if he continued to space out his trips with a forty-eight hour period, he would do just fine. Even though the days between trips eventually became difficult to deal with. Greg found himself bored more often on those days, and television could not entertain him. Sometimes, he went out. Sometimes, he talked to his cat. But mostly, he just slept, and waited, insisting that he maintain at least the rule of spacing out his dosage, if not the rule of maintaining the dosage itself.

Every day, it became more difficult. But he did it, because Greg was smarter than the drugs. And stronger. He insisted he was stronger. There was no interference in his work or even his personal nights. In fact, the drug relaxed him so much, he actually found himself spending more time with Nick and Catherine outside of the lab than he had before he'd started taking it. If anything, Valium had become a welcome addition to his life, and he wasn't about to give it up.

He looked at the number on his phone, hesitating. He needed more pills, but he was afraid to dial her number.

_No,_ he insisted. _"Need" is the wrong word. I don't _need_ them, I _want_ them. Just want them, is all._

He challenged himself to go an extra few days without his Valium. He was tense and agitated, and seemed to sweat just slightly more than normal, although he attributed that to the Las Vegas heat. But it allowed his system to detoxify, which was vital if he wanted to remain in control. He needed to keep this a hobby, not a habit, and any physical signs of addiction must be dealt with, before they went too far.

So three days later, he was staring at his phone again. He took a deep breath and dialed.

"Yo," came the answer, her voice low and aggressive. "Who the hell is this?"

"Camellia, it's Greg."

"I don't know any Greg..." she said slowly, and it occurred to Greg that he had never introduced himself to her.

"The guy from Valhalla. I ruined your mark by spilling his drink?"

She paused. "Oh... Oh yeah, Greg, I remember you, cariño. So, tired of being the hero, are we?"

Greg held his breath. "I'm out."

"And you need more? Surprise, surprise."

"Yeah. Where can I meet you?"

"6328 Maple Drive. Bring cash, querido."

There was a click, and then she was gone.

* * *

The house was in a normal enough neighborhood, which surprised Greg. He expected that he would have to walk into some pretty shady places in order to meet with Camellia. But a boy was teaching his little sister how to ride a tricycle and a woman jogged with her iPod in her ears. Greg felt slightly _more_ uncomfortable surrounded by such a wholesome atmosphere. Maybe it would have been better if Camellia had told him to meet her at a park, or in some dilapidated neighborhood. He moved up the walk and climbed the steps onto the porch of number 6328 before knocking, awkwardly.

Had she given him the wrong address?

Was there more than one Maple Drive in Las Vegas?

What would he say to the chipper soccer mom who answered the door with a toddler in her arms?

Luckily, Greg didn't have to worry about that, because the dark skinned woman who answered wasn't a soccer mom. Not even close.

She smiled. "Hey, sugar." She pushed the door wide open and beckoned him with her hand. "Come inside. I'll get you your stuff."

Greg entered the suburban home and realized that it probably looked fairly similar to any other home on the street. It was clean, with furniture from IKEA and even a few framed photographs of a happy family hung on the wall. He followed Camellia out of the entry hall and into a living room, where he stopped.

It would seem that he had just crashed some sort of laidback party. There were five other people in the room, most of them lounging about on the furniture, and one of them he recognized.

"G-man!" Lyle crooned, obviously intoxicated with something. There was the strange smell of something familiar, but Greg couldn't quite place it. A large dopey smile was on his face as he waved at Greg. "Good to see you!"

Greg supposed that he should have guessed Lyle was a frequent customer's of Camellia, as he seemed averse to doing anything about the games she pulled at Valhalla. But he hadn't expected to see the bartender there.

He waved weakly as Camellia vanished into another room. "Hey," he said. "What's, uh... what's going on?"

"Just chillin'," Lyle replied. Someone passed him what Greg realized was a joint and Lyle held the short stick to his lips before inhaling. There was a pause which everyone seemed to be waiting, and then the bartender exhaled, blowing smoke into the air. Greg was finally able to identify the smell that weighed thick and moist in the air.

"Right..." he noted as Lyle passed the joint on.

Camellia reentered the room holding a new orange bottle and shaking it. "Here you are, sugar," she said, sauntering over to Greg. She pressed her body obscenely close and took his hands in hers, pressing the bottle into his palm.

"Fifty bucks," she said.

"You're kidding," Greg groaned.

"You wanna go find another place to get them?" she asked.

Greg sighed and fished three twenties out of his back pocket. She snatched it from his hand immediately after it came into view and put it beneath the collar of her rather low-cut blouse.

"Hey—that was sixty. You got ten bucks for me?"

"How about next time, you only pay forty?" she asked.

Greg rolled his eyes and pocketed his pills, stepping backwards to put a little bit of distance between himself and Camellia.

"You're not going to sample the product?" Camellia asked. "For all you know, I could have given you junk."

"You gave me good stuff last time," said Greg.

"That's because I didn't know I would be selling it to you," said Camellia. "Or giving it, as the case was. You blackmailer, you." She was teasing.

Greg took out the bottle again and looked at it. "I have to drive home," he said.

"Aw, don't worry about that..." Camellia cooed.

"Yeah, don't worry about that," Lyle called, echoed by other cries of support. "Stay a while, G. Relax."

Greg rubbed his eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea..." he began.

"C'mon..." Camellia whispered, huskily. "We'll take good care of you. Promise." She gestured at a nearby armchair and lifted a bottle of water off of the table, handing it to Greg.

He glanced at his watch. "I have to be at work in three hours..." he said.

"You will be totally at baseline by then," said Camellia. "Have a seat. Try one."

Though verbally, he protested, he found his knees bending, his body sinking into the armchair. "I've never taken it this close before work..."

"Hush," Camellia whispered, swinging one leg over his lap until she was straddling him. She took the bottle from his hand and poured three pills onto her palm.

"That's more than I—"

"Sh..." she hushed again with a smile, and took one tiny yellow pill in between her thumb and forefinger, pressing it against Greg's lips until it slid into his mouth. She did the same with the other two, and Greg did not protest any more. She handed him the bottle of water. "Drink."

He placed the bottle to his lips and closed his eyes, swallowing the water and the pills. When he opened them again, Camellia's smile had turned into a grin.

"There," she said. "In a few minutes, you'll be feeling all better."

Greg bit his lip, still slightly nervous about taking three pills when he was used to taking two at most. Five milligrams a pill, with ten being the recommended dosage, that meant that Greg was halfway past that mark, and if he kept ingesting all these pills, then the buildup of the anxiolytic in his system would mean...

Would mean...

What had he been thinking about?

"Aw, man..." he breathed, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair as chills dribbled down his back like hot fudge on a sundae. He was suddenly warm, his muscles relaxing as he sank deeper into the chair. He took a deep breath and exhaled as the familiar sense of contentedness flooded his whole body. His muscles tingled slightly, but not uncomfortably. It was as if someone was running a feather over his skin, soft and ticklish.

"Aha, there we go, man!" Lyle exclaimed as Camellia climbed off of Greg and situated herself between Lyle and an Asian woman on the couch.

"Greg," she said slowly. She pointed at the woman next to her. "This is Misty."

"Hey." Misty waved. Her voice was low and her smile was broad.

Camellia pointed at a pale guy with black hair and frosted tips sitting by the coffee table rolling a new joint. "That's Toxic."

He didn't even look up from his task when he said, "S'up."

Camellia nodded at a girl sitting at the opposite end of the coffee table, watching Toxic with fascination. She had purple hair and pasty skin, along with a nose ring in her right nostril and black lipstick. "That over there is Gemini."

Gemini said nothing, in fact she didn't even move.

Camellia laughed. "She's seein' stars." She gestured to the other armchair, where a fourth person was, with tan skin and a black tattoo on the back of his left hand that read 666. "And that is Frank."

"What, no clever nickname for you?" Greg asked, playfully.

"If you knew my real name, chico, you'd know that Frank _is_ a clever nickname," he replied with a thick Spanish accent.

Greg smiled. "I wanna nickname!" he whined playfully to Camellia.

She returned the grin with affection. "Of course, cariño. What would you like us to call you?"

"Don't care," said Greg, because it was true. Things were beginning to slow down again, and the tingling sensation had reached his brain. "You pick."

She tossed back her head in a barking laugh and her hair floated in space for a moment before falling lightly on her shoulders, like ebony clouds. "Ah, I know. We shall call you Conejo, on account of how fast you are going, mi hijito."

"What does..." His lips moved so slowly. "... 'Conejo' mean?"

"It means Rabbit, amigo," came Frank's voice from the chair.

A dopey smile claimed Greg's features as he closed his eyes and leisurely raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Sounds good to me." He felt as if someone had taken the sound on a record and slowed it down. Everything was in slow motion. He saw the freshly rolled joint move from Toxic's fingers to Camellia on the couch and she inhaled deeply before passing it on. It seemed to take forever for the joint to reach Greg, handed to him across the way by Misty.

He held it and was about to pass it back to Toxic, when he was chastised by Lyle. "Nah, man, you _have_ to take a hit," he said. "It's like... an unwritten law or something."

Greg stopped and looked back at the joint in his hand, wondering why he had decided to pass on the grass this time. It was more out of habit than anything else. No actual thought had crossed his mind about whether or not he would partake in smoking marijuana. It seemed to him like a no-brainer. He hadn't gotten high on pot since college, and that was a long time ago. He knew better now, or so he liked to think.

But as the Valium flooded his blood stream and loosened up his tense muscles, his brain slowly came to the apathetic conclusion that there was no harm in taking a hit. Without thinking, he put the thing to his lips and inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke invade his lungs and held it there until his head began to spin and then he puffed it back out into the air before letting out a low chuckle, which he found he couldn't contain.

He passed the joint back to Toxic as he continued to laugh, his hand sliding across his stomach, hyperaware of the feel of the fibers of his shirt against the ridges of his palm and fingertips, and found this all the more amusing. Valium never induced euphoria in him, only a warm sense of contentedness. But with the addition of the marijuana, bliss slowly began in his chest and spread its warm tendrils out into the rest of his body.

His head felt empty, and yet his thoughts were fairly clear. He felt like a helium balloon that could just float up to the ceiling, and he only seemed to think further into the very cushy armchair.

"There we go," said Toxic approvingly as he took another hit before passing it to Gemini, who took it and stared at it a moment before laughing and falling backwards, handing it to Frank without trying it.

Greg coughed to stir up the phlegm in his lungs. It had been a while since he'd smoked _anything,_ so neither his lungs nor his mind were used to it, but the valium kept him steady and calm. He knew he should probably be worried, but he just couldn't find the effort anymore, and so he allowed himself to be lost in the moment.

"How come _she_ doesn't have to take a hit?" Greg asked, gesturing lazily at Gemini.

"She's already gone, Rabbit," said Misty with a grin. "Far away from here. You, on the other hand, badly needed to loosen up."

"Well, I'm loose now," Greg sighed, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. "_So_ loose."

"Good!" Camellia exclaimed. "You deserve it, cariño. You're always so _tense_."

"S'my job..." Greg mumbled, colors dancing behind his closed lids. "Makes me... the opposite of how I feel right now."

"Well, maybe you should get a new job," Frank suggested, twirling the joint between his fingers. He handed the joint back to Greg, who inhaled deeply before sighing it all out again.

"S'more to it than that... can't explain... I don't wanna talk anymore," he moaned. He was aware enough to recognize that his words were slurred, but too far gone to care.

He felt as if a second stretched on into eternity, although moments later, he felt something warm slithering up and down the top of his thighs. He opened his eyes to see Camellia on her knees between his spread legs, her hands crawling up and down his jeans as she smirked at him.

"You still with us, Conejo?" she whispered.

Grinning dopily, he nodded. "Yeah... I just don't want to move or... do anything..."

"We ordered munchies," said Toxic, and Greg looked up to see him carrying a box of pizza into the room. Greg didn't remember him ever leaving. "You want?"

"Hell yeah..." Greg tried to be enthusiastic but found it to be too much effort. He was starving though. "I want some food."

The pizza was warm against his tongue, the movement of others blurs before his vision. He swallowed and felt the food fall into his stomach, filling it up, and was grateful for it. Laughter filled the room and Gemini was rolling on the floor, her smile still in place. Camellia was no longer between his legs, but had somehow found her way behind the armchair and her hands dug deeply into Greg's shoulders as she kneaded at them. At one point he saw Misty lean over and whisper something into Lyle's ear that made him laugh, but he didn't know what she said.

Fingers were stroking his hair, and waves of delighted shivers bounced between Greg's head and his toes. He concentrated on his breathing, staring at Gemini dancing on the floor, ate whatever pizza was handed to him, smoked whatever was passed to him, and swallowed whatever pills were given to him.

And then, after what seemed like hour-long minutes, a vibrating sensation erupted in his jeans, and he laughed, wondering if it was his cat. A friendly and familiar song floated into his ears.

And then, Lyle yelled, "Dude! Answer that, it's killing my buzz!"

Greg slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone with great effort. Eyes closed, he held it to his ear.

"Mm?" he intoned, unable to form any actual word.

Grissom's voice broke into his thoughts. "Greg? Where are you?"

Greg tried to think. "Em... what?"

"Are you OK? You're an hour late."

A fleeting tinge of panic flickered over the surface of Greg's consciousness, but it was gone rather quickly. Still, time was slowly speeding up again. He opened his eyes and they flickered over to a clock on Camellia's mantle. "Oh..." he muttered. "Didn't realize it was so... late."

"Well, where are you?" Grissom asked, his anxious tone beginning to irk the previously placated Greg.

"What's the big deal?" Greg groaned with a yawn and a stretch. "I'll be there, um... soon."

"You don't sound like yourself. Are you hurt? Are you sick?"

"Li'l sick, but it'll pass," Greg assured Grissom. "Was... sleeping, is all."

"I see..." Grissom whispered. "If you're ill, maybe you should keep sleeping."

"Nah, I'll be there," Greg insisted, already feeling the weight slowly returning to his mind. "I'll..."

A hand slinked down his arm and closed around the phone in his hands, taking it from his grip. He tiled his head back to see Camellia, who closed the phone with a smirk and tossed it back into his lap.

"You can't go anywhere in your condition, you're way too stoned," she said.

He rubbed his eyes. "I'm fine," he groaned. "I feel tense now, all over again, which means the valium is gone, doesn't it? As for the pot, it's giving me a headache. I'm coming down."

"That's good, Conejo," said Camellia. "But you're still pretty high up there." She looked up and across the room. "Lyle! You're sober, right? Take him home."

Lyle saluted as Misty climbed off of his lap. What she was initially doing on his lap, Greg wasn't sure. "Yes ma'am!" he said, rising to his feet.

"OK then..." Greg muttered, sitting up in his chair. His body moved, but it felt stiff. He wondered if he had moved from it at all in the last four hours. He reached into his pocket to make sure his pill bottle was still there. "I'ma just gonna... take my pills and go then. See you when I see you."

He wavered on his feet, the room still rocking back and forth, but he was becoming more aware of himself now, and time was picking up again. He felt Lyle's arm around his shoulders as he guided Greg to the door.

"Come on now, G-man, time to go home."

"Actually..." said Greg slowly. "Can you give me a ride to the crime lab?"

"Is _that_ where you work?" Frank asked, leaning against the wall by the couch. "Damn, that's depressing."

"You weren't kidding when you said you were a morbid guy," said Camellia with a wry smile.

"'K, I can drop you off there," said Lyle.

"What about my car?" Greg asked, looking over his shoulder at Camellia.

"It'll still be here when you get done with work, cariño!" Camilla called back. "You need to put in those hours so you can pay me, you silly Rabbit!"

And his last sight of her as Lyle ushered him out of the door, was her tossing her head full of dark hair back in laughter.


	6. Lies

_**Author's Note:**_ Thanks for your patience, you interest, and, of course, your reviews. Had to wait for the beta on this one, but it's not her fault she has a lot on her plate right now (Love ya, Kels!). As you can probably see, things are beginning to spiral, and suspicions are being raised...

* * *

The lab was a thirty minute drive from Camellia's house, and Greg slowly returned to himself as he stared out at the scenery flashing by his window in Lyle's jeep. The trip had left him with a bit of a heavier headache than he was used to afterwards, and his stomach was twisting, though he doubted it was bad enough to make him throw up. He was worried again, mostly about his behavior in the past couple of hours. It disturbed him that he could only remember parts of them, and the rest was a blur of blissful feeling. He had enjoyed it, there was no question of that, but Greg was wary of the toll it had taken on his body.

He was relieved to remind himself that, compared to other drugs, cannabis was no big deal. It wasn't addictive, nor did it leave lasting damage on his brain or body if he did not continue to use the drug in the long term. The marijuana was not what concerned him. It was the Valium. He couldn't remember how many pills he had consumed in the last four hours, but he knew that considering the span of an average Valium trip (anywhere from an hour to two hours), he must have had more than the first dose he'd taken at the start, but he couldn't remember it.

He resolved that, while beautifully divine, mixing marijuana and Valium was a bad idea simply because he could not be held responsible for his actions afterwards. He probably shouldn't have taken a hit off of the joint in the first place, but it had seemed like a fabulous idea at the time. He didn't so much regret it as he felt guilty about it. If his body got too used to the Valium, then Greg was in for a whole mess of trouble.

He was so worried by the time Lyle pulled up outside of the Vegas Crime Lab, that he knew for sure that all of the Valium had worn off, and the effects of the marijuana were falling away as well. He realized that he didn't recall smoking that much, although he must have if he was still feeling it four hours later. Memory gaps were not one of his favorite side effects of Valium.

"This it?" Lyle asked.

Greg nodded, then turned to him. "Thanks, Lyle, I really appreciate it."

"No problemo, man," Lyle replied with a smug smile. "Just watch your mouth the next time you comment on the coke?"

"Coke...?" It took Greg a second to understand that Lyle wasn't talking about a black sugary soda. "Oh! You mean—"

"Yeah," Lyle interrupted, nodding. "Kinda the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say?"

"Valium is _not_ cocaine," Greg insisted. "Believe me, I know the chemical make up of both, and their effects."

"Ah, you know all about every drug there is, don't you?" Lyle asked teasingly. "Smart little Rabbit."

Greg snorted at the use of his new nickname. He liked it. It made him feel like he was a part of something. And he had always been trying to encourage himself to make more friends outside of work. "Now I really want some coke..." Greg muttered.

"I can arrange that for you, you know," Lyle said seriously.

Greg laughed. "I meant a soda," he explained with a wink and the smile returned to Lyle's face.

"Ah. Right. You want a ride back to Cam's when your shift is over? I won't be doing anything later. I'm not on at Valhalla tonight, obviously, so if you call, I could give you a lift."

Greg was touched that he even offered. "That's cool of you, but I can find my way back there. Wouldn't wanna trouble you, after all."

"Hey, I just want to make sure you get home alright," said Lyle. "You smoked a shitload tonight, and the drunk pills didn't exactly make it nothing."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, but I'm good now. Thanks a lot, though." He meant it. It was rare to find people who actually cared, and Greg was surprised that someone whom he had classified as merely an acquaintance a few days ago was offering to go out of his way to give Greg a ride home if he needed it.

"See you around?" Lyle asked hopefully.

"Call me," said Greg, as he got out of the car. "Get the number from Cam."

Lyle grinned. "Will do," he promised, and then drove off.

Entering the crime lab, Greg was struck by the harsh florescent lights that bombarded his weary vision. He rubbed at his eyes and gave a meek wave to Judy.

"Grissom wants to see you," she informed him, to which Greg just grumbled and made his way to Grissom's office.

When he finally got there, he noticed Nick was sitting in the chair in front of Grissom's desk, and both men looked to the door upon Greg's entrance. Nick's brow furrowed in confusion while Grissom remained impassive.

"You don't look good," said Nick, rising to his feet and approaching Greg. "Your eyes are all bloodshot."

Greg waved him off, irritably. "I'm fine," he grumbled, then turned his attention to Grissom. "Judy said you wanted me?"

"I have a case for you..." said Grissom slowly. "Take Nick along."

"Still don't trust me alone, I see..." Greg whispered, approaching the desk and taking the file Grissom handed him.

"That's not it," Grissom said sternly. "I would have—"

"I don't blame you," Greg interrupted quickly with a sad smile. "I wouldn't trust myself either."

Grissom sighed loudly before finishing his sentence. "I would have sent you alone, but Nick solved his case unexpectedly earlier and he asked if he could go with you."

"Oh," said Greg, feeling sheepish. "Uh... right. Cool. What is it?"

"420 out on Berkley..." Greg snorted. "Is something funny, Greg?"

"No, it's just..."He sighed, realizing that he _must_ have had some marijuana left in his system if he found that funny. "I didn't realize... the way we code things, it's..." He was digging a very deep hole. "Would you believe me if I said it's one of those 'you had to be there' things?"

"Had to be where, Greg?" Nick asked suddenly. "Why are you an hour late anyway?" He sounded accusatory and prodding, and it made Greg uncomfortable, and suddenly he wanted his Valium again.

"None of your damn business!" he snapped back irritably. "What I do on my own time is not your concern."

"Except you weren't on your time, you were on mine," Grissom said severely.

An uneasy quiet filled the room as every muscle in Greg's body constricted. What he wouldn't have given to be back in that amorphous armchair in Camellia's living room where nothing in the world mattered but pot and pizza.

"Nick, would you wait outside a moment please?" Grissom asked quietly, his eyes drilling into Greg.

"Sure..." Nick muttered, but he cast Greg a suspicious look on his way out.

When the door clicked shut, Grissom did not look away from Greg. "Sit down, Greg."

The young CSI obeyed. "What do you want me to say, Griss? That I'm shooting heroin in back alleys?"

"I know you're smarter than that," said Grissom. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"As attractive as I know Sara finds you, you're not exactly my type."

Grissom seemed momentarily confused before he inhaled a curt gasp and shook his head, his expression unchanging. "No, I mean like a therapist. A grief councilor, or something."

"Grief councilor?" Greg laughed. "Why would I need one of those?"

Grissom hesitated before leaning forward slightly over the papers on his desk. "Do you remember a while ago, when it was recommended that each of us speak with the department psychologist after what happened with Warrick? You didn't go."

Greg's lip trembled before he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands, trying to feign comfort. "Yeah, I, uh, didn't see the point, really."

"Well, everyone else went," Grissom explained. "Including me. Including Sara, and she didn't even have to go. But you didn't go."

"I didn't know him that well."

"You didn't know him that well..." Grissom mimicked, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "You worked with him side by side for over eight years and yet... you didn't know him that well."

"We didn't do much outside of work," Greg explained. "I mean... he was a great guy, I know that he was, and I liked him a lot, I really did, but to be fair... we didn't really know each other. Like, I don't even know what his favorite food is. Was. Whatever. The point is... I guess... that we weren't friends. We were colleagues."

"You weren't friends?" Grissom repeated, and Greg was reminded of a broken record.

"Is there an echo in here?!" he exclaimed, annoyed. "I _said_ we weren't friends, alright? Not like all of the rest of you seemed to be. I mean, you all had... I don't..." He struggled to explain without revealing the truth of what he thought about Warrick and the rest of the team. How even when he joined them three years ago, he had never really felt like he was a part of that inner circle. The experienced siblinghood of the veteran CSIs, who were much cleverer than Greg, really, who were wiser, who had done it longer, who had known each other longer... Even Sara, who had been the latest addition to the team, seemed to crack that circle whereas Greg was constantly hovering on the outside of it as the rookie ex-lab rat. A part of him wondered if he would ever be good enough for them.

"I think you should see someone, Greg," said Grissom quietly.

"I'm not fucked up about Warrick, OK?" Greg snapped, though it wasn't entirely true. "We weren't friends, so..." That wasn't true either, and both he and Grissom knew it. "So I don't have to talk about it if I don't want to. I'd much rather get on with things. Stop thinking about it. Stop worrying, stop _caring_, I just..." He sighed. "I just want to go back to how things _were_. You know? Can't we just laugh and speak for the dead and put bad guys behind bars and have none of this... darkness or fear or anger or... or... or..."

He heard paper slide against mahogany and looked down to see Grissom pushing a card across the desk. It said _Dr. Laramie_ on it, followed by _Psy.D_ and a phone number. Greg looked up at Grissom.

"I don't need this," he insisted, pushing the card back.

"Just take it," Grissom whispered pleadingly, sliding it towards Greg again.

The younger man sighed and decided it would be easier to get Grissom off of his back if he just took the damn card. "K," he said. "But I'm not making any promises."

"Of course not," said Grissom. "But please, consider it. Now, go on. Nick is waiting for you."

* * *

"What did Grissom want to talk to you about?"

Greg sighed and sat back on his haunches, a nail scraper in one gloved hand and an evidence bag in the other. He looked across the body at Nick, whose eyes were hidden behind the lens of a camera, which was focused on a strange discoloration by the victim's scalp.

"Nothing," said Greg. He figured he should have expected the question from Nick sooner or later, but he'd hoped he could get through the day without being nagged by him.

"Well, whatever he said, he was right," said Nick, lowering the camera to look up at Greg.

"You don't even know what it was!" Greg growled, aggressively.

"I know that Grissom is generally right, especially if he told you that you look like shit," Nick returned, casually snapping another photo as he said it.

Greg finished with the fingernail scrapings and rose to his feet. "I'm going to... walk the perimeter. See if there's any evidence left at the entrance point by the window."

"Whatever..." Nick muttered, although it was clear to Greg that Nick did not believe the conversation was over.

"What do you want from me, Nick?" Greg asked suddenly, tired of this dance. He offered his palms to the Texan, helplessly.

Nick looked up. "I don't want anything," he replied, calmly. "You're the one that seems to want to pick a fight."

It was then that Greg realized that all of Nick's questions had been quiet and almost casual. It was Greg's responses that had been defensive. He dropped his arms to his side again. "Oh."

"So... how are you doing?" Nick asked, carefully, and Greg knew that it was taking a lot of effort for the older man to remain so calm.

"I'm fine," Greg replied. "And you?"

"Fine."

"Good, then," said Greg. "I'm going to check out the window." He began to head off when he paused in the doorway. "Oh, and... Nick?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah?"

"Could you, er... give me a ride to a friend's house after work? I left my car there, and I need to pick it up."

Nick looked up, curiously. "How'd you come in, then?"

"A friend gave me a ride."

"Why?"

"Because he was being nice," Greg answered vaguely.

Nick's tongue shot out and licked his lips swiftly before he nodded. "Yeah, sure, I can give you a ride..." he said slowly.

Greg smiled. "Thanks."

* * *

It was raining when Nick pulled up outside of 6328 Maple Drive. Greg had been quiet the whole way over, and the two of them had each participated in what could only be described as small talk, if it was even that. Mostly, it had been a few awkward attempts at conversation on both of their parts before Greg had given up and turned on the radio.

"This is it, thanks," said Greg with a smile, opening the door. "You can head out now."

"OK..." said Nick, a slightly dazed expression in his eyes as Greg hopped out into the rain and closed the door. He jogged over to his car which was parked right in front of Nick's and fumbled for his keys. He dropped them once and muttered a curse under his breath as he stooped to pick them up off of the ground and stick them in the lock again.

Warm hands slid tenderly around his waist as a chin nested in the juncture of his neck and shoulder and for an earth-shattering instant, Greg actually thought it was Nick. Until logic kicked in and he realized Nick's hands were much larger, his embrace much more enveloping, and his touch much more welcome.

He twisted in her embrace and placed his hands on her shoulders to see Camellia smiling back at him, her blouse getting soaked by the rain as her hair was plastered to her face.

"Come clubbing with me, little Rabbit," she begged.

He shook his head and pushed her away, turning back to his car. "No, I need to go home. Besides, do you know any clubs who are still letting people in at five in the morning?"

"I know one..." she said slowly and nodded back at her house with a smile. "Come inside and stay awhile. We will have a little fun."

Greg gestured at his car. "Can't," he said. "I gotta sleep sometime. Besides, I don't think I'm going to be doing the weed and Valium mix again. I have no idea exactly what went on a few hours ago and... Well, I like being in control."

She nodded. "I understand," she said. "But here's a little sample..." She slid a warm, sealed plastic bag into Greg's palm. "In case you change your mind. And you know where you can always get more."

He pushed the weed back into Camellia's hand, shaking his head. "I won't change my mind," he insisted.

She nodded and closed her fingers around it. "OK," she said, and for a moment Greg thought he had won until she pushed herself against him again and slid the bag into the front pocket of his jeans. She slowly pulled her hands out of his pockets and moved them up his chest, his shirt drenched from the rain. The wet fabric moved against his skin beneath her hands until she slid them up his neck to cup his cheeks.

"I guess I'll see you around, Conejo," she whispered, and then let go, stepping back and allowing Greg to get into his car. She stood in the middle of the road as Greg pulled away from the curb and drove down the street.

* * *

Greg had been so distracted, he hadn't noticed that Nick hadn't driven away as soon as Greg was out of the car. The Texan had lingered, watching Greg fumble with his keys. Seeing the door of a house open across the street, the rectangle of yellow light pouring out into the street. Observing as she jogged across the street and slid her arms around Greg's waist as if they had belonged there. And at first, Greg didn't seem at all unhappy about it. Until he pushed her away. They seemed to have a small argument before he got in his car and drove away.

And now, Nick was out of his own Tahoe, and striding quickly towards the woman in the center of the street, who noticed him when he was a few feet away.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah," said Nick, thickening his Texan accent as much as possible. "It's real late and I'm lost. Do you know this area well?"

"Sure," she said. "I live here. Where do you need to go?"

"Laurelhurst?" Nick tried.

She smiled. It was warm, helpful, and coated in caramel like a candied apple. It was the kind of smile you could bite into. But if you did, you could be poisoned. "Oh sure, sugar." She pointed down the road Greg had disappeared and gave him a few brief but accurate directions of how to reach Laurelhurst from where they were.

Nick faked a grateful grin. "Well, thank you, ma'am," he said. "If you don't mind me askin', who was that fine gentleman you were speaking to? You seemed mighty close. He your beau?"

She laughed. "Oh, no, no, no, sir, we're just..." She bit her lip, and her smile spread like an infectious disease. "Good friends, is all."

"Ah huh," said Nick nodding, still pretending it was just polite curiosity. "Well, it looked like you were _very_ good friends, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, he's a sweetheart, but we have a strictly business relationship—" She seemed to stop abruptly, as if she was catching herself in some mistake. But she covered it up with that sugary sweet smile. "He's my carpenter, you see. Came over a while ago to fix my floors."

"Carpenter..." She was a liar. He had known that from the start by pure instinct, but the fact that she had assigned Greg to a job Nick knew he didn't have finally proved it. "You know, Jesus was a carpenter."

"Oh yes, and my carpenter was my savior," said the woman with a nod. "Termites, you see. Another day, and they may have eaten my whole house."

"You keep goin' to church now, ya hear?" said Nick with another overly enthusiastic smile as he moved back towards his car.

"Praise Jesus!" she replied, almost sarcastically as he reached his door. "You have a nice night, sir."

"You too, ma'am," said Nick before closing the door to his car. His smile evaporated instantly as he stared at the rain that splattered his windshield. He would need to have a talk with Greg about this woman. If he thought she was his girlfriend, then clearly the two of them had different perceptions of their relationship. He'd have to warn Greg that she was out to break his heart.

Little did he know, she was out to break so much more than just Greg's heart.


	7. Girls

Greg continued in his routine. The night after he'd gotten high, he had refrained from indulging in his favorite escape, and chalked up his irritability and discomfort to a bad mood. Regardless, he tried to pace himself, skipping another night, and blatantly ignoring Catherine when she remarked that he was clammy at work.

Nick's anxiety about Greg did not seem to lessen as the days passed, though he did seem to be attempting to be nice to Greg. Greg wondered if the Texan could use a few pills himself now and then to calm down.

And then, one day at work, Nick brought up a topic Greg didn't even know the Texan knew about.

"So are you still seeing that girl?"

Greg looked up. The question had come out of nowhere. They were in the AV lab looking over security footage and Archie had left for some coffee, so they were alone.

"What girl?" Because Greg honestly could not think of whom Nick was referring to.

"A while ago, when I dropped you off to pick up your car," Nick explained. "There was a... a girl. The two of you seemed pretty friendly, is all. I just... I mean, I just _assumed_..."

"No," said Greg, shaking his head. "I mean..." He tried to think fast, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. He felt the sweat gather in his palms. "Er... Why are you asking me this? It's none of your business!"

He hadn't meant to snap, but he seemed to be growing more and more irritable at work. He had an inkling why, but refused to consciously acknowledge it, so he just tried to reason with himself that his colleagues were getting on his nerves more often recently.

The fact that Nick didn't take his testiness personally showed Greg just how common this mood had become for him. "I just... I wanted to warn you is all. I talked to her—"

"You _what_?!" Greg exploded.

"Calm down!" Nick hissed insistently. "You're gonna draw a crowd, alright? Don't worry, she didn't know that I knew you. I was just... I wanted to make sure that she was OK for you. She's not."

"Who are you to say that, huh?" Greg demanded icily. "It's my life, I can date who I want."

"She said that it was just business between you, whatever that means..." And then, comprehension seemed to dawn on Nick's face and Greg's stomach twisted so violently he thought he'd have to run out right there and throw up.

"M-means w-what?" Greg managed to stutter, horrified.

"Oh God..." Nick muttered, concern etched deep in his features. "Greg... I can't believe it."

"Nick, I can explain—"

"You're a-a-a great guy!" Nick cried. "I mean, I don't... Well, that is... Women, I'm sure, find you... very attractive, right? And you're funny! Women _love _funny!"

Greg blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Nick looked suddenly very awkward. "I mean, what you do with your personal life is your business, I guess, I just never thought that... someone like _you_ would ever really need a... a _prostitute _to—"

"Oh!" Greg exclaimed, everything suddenly making so much sense. "Oh... Oh, yeah..." He was about to deny that Camellia was a prostitute when he realized that it was a better explanation than the alternative. "Yeah, she, uh... Yeah," he finished dully, not sure exactly what to say at that point.

Nick sighed with relief. "Oh, wow, well, at least I feel better now..." He laughed. "For a moment, I thought you might be getting into a dangerous relationship, but... Well, if you both feel it's strictly business, then... I guess you're right. It's not _my_ business, is it?"

Greg also emitted a low, relieved sigh. "Yeah, yeah it isn't. So, uh... So let's not bring it up again, OK?"

Nick nodded. "You don't... have to be embarrassed about it, ya know?" he said. "But if you want, I know a couple girls who would probably really like you..."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Greg, rolling his eyes.

Archie reentered the room with his coffee in hand and slid into the chair. Nick and Greg became very quiet and Archie looked from one to the other.

"You know that feeling you get when you walk in the room and everyone stops talking and you think that maybe you were the topic of conversation?"

Nick and Greg simply blinked at him.

Archie shifted uncomfortably then turned back to the video. "Yeah, I totally _don't_ have that feeling."

Greg rolled his eyes, and it occurred to him that Archie rarely bothered him, even on his bad days. The fact that he was so unhinged began to bother him.

"I, uh... I'm gonna go get some coffee myself."

He ducked out of the room, knowing he had provoked a curious glance from Nick as he did so and made his way swiftly down the hall until he somehow managed to find the bathroom, pushing the door open and gripping the sink as he looked at himself in the mirror.

He was probably paler than he'd ever remembered being. He slept more during the day, when he took his dose of Valium to knock him out first, and so he rarely saw any sun. But he was more than pale. His skin was a strange sallow shade, especially under and around the corners of his eyes. He pulled at his cheek to see the vivid red of the skin beneath his eye. He bit his lip, sighed, and turned on the water, splashing his face, telling himself to get a grip.

He was beginning to forget things. Like how many days it had been since he'd sampled the marijuana at Camellia's. He even forgot when the last time he'd taken a dose of Valium to calm down was. Had it been a day ago or two days ago? He closed his eyes, trying to think. He took deep breaths. This wasn't good. This was unhealthy. He needed more pills.

He reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out his faithful bottle before tapping four pills into his open palm. He closed his sweaty fist around them. They were hot in his hand. He looked up in the mirror.

This was indeed very bad.

His breath hitched in his throat and he swallowed, before dropping the pills one by one back into the bottle and screwing the cap on.

_No_, he thought. _I can't take them at work. I'm fucked if I take them at work. Wait. Relax._

The problem was that he _couldn't_ relax, not anymore, not without the pills. Weeks ago, he had managed smoothly. At night, he used to take one or two pills and during the day he had been fine, happy, even sociable. But as he built up a tolerance, he was losing all that. He needed to increase his dosage. He needed to find that happy medium again.

But there was no hiding from the sallow complexion in the mirror, the dry, sunken eyes, the wide irises...

He pursed his lips and pocketed the bottle before turning around abruptly and exiting the bathroom. As he paced down the hall, he couldn't resist reaching into his pocket again to pull out his small bottle. He looked at the label, which predictably read _Diazepam_. The person it had initially been prescribed to was scratched out. He focused to try and read the name, wondering if maybe he could get a jump on Camellia's supplier, when—

"Oh! Darn it all! I'm so sorry!"

Greg had been so startled by the bump that he had dropped the bottle and it fell to the floor, along with the young blonde lab tech's papers. He barely registered the innocently sweet voice wrapped snugly in a deep Southern drawl, even more pronounced than Nick's. He kneeled down with her to help collect them when she laughed, awkwardly.

"Oh dear, I am _such _a scatterbrain!" she exclaimed. "This is my fault, I'm sorry, I didn't see you."

"Didn't see you either," Greg admitted, but he wasn't paying much attention. His eyes were on his pill bottle which rested right between the woman's sensible black heels. The tech was crouching, which meant that reaching for it would be awkward, but he couldn't let it just _lay_ there.

"I'm Molly, by the way," she said cheerfully, still focused on gathering the papers.

"Molly, hey," he muttered, trying to devise a way of obtaining his pills subtly without the young woman thinking he was reaching for somewhere inappropriate. The last thing he needed was a sexual harassment write-up.

"And you are?"

She was looking at him and he didn't understand the question. Finally, his mind caught up with him. "Oh. Greg." And then, recognition fluttered across his face. This was the girl he'd seen Nick flirting with _weeks_ ago. Why he remembered her, Greg wasn't sure, but he remembered very clearly the way Nick had smiled, the way his hand had rested on her shoulder, and the way his eyes had gravitated downwards and then back up again as she walked away.

He was so lost in this memory that he hadn't even realized that she had picked up the pills and was examining them.

"Diazepam, huh?" she said conversationally, jolting Greg back to the present. She handed it back to him. "Yeah, I was on that a few years ago when I was finishin' up my masters... I was goin' nuts from the stress, so my roommate insisted I see someone. How's it workin' for you, darlin'?"

Greg blinked, pausing a moment to gather his wits. "Oh, it's, uh, it's not mine," he covered quickly, pocketing the bottle immediately after receiving it. "It's, um... evidence. In a case. Very important. Are you on day shift?"

"No," said Molly. "I'm fillin' in for Henry Andrews in toxicology? He's out at a, um..."

"Semester at Johns Hopkins for biochemical research..." Greg finished, suddenly remembering. "I forgot..."

"Well, we all forget things," said Molly reassuringly.

"Not me," said Greg suddenly. "I'm generally good at _not_ forgetting. Now I'm forgetting things..."

"Are you OK?" Molly asked, slowly.

"Yes. No. Yes. I mean, yeah, I'm fine."

She laughed again, but this time it was strangely awkward. "OK, then..." She rose to her feet and Greg followed suit. "You have a nice day, now, with your, uh... big case?"

"Yup, very big," Greg assured her.

"Is it the same one Nick's workin' on?"

"Oh, you know Nick?" Greg tried to sound nonchalant, but felt that he had failed.

She nodded. "He's been super sweet, helpin' me acclimate to the lab and such." She rolled her eyes. "Much better than that David Hodges, who was the _first_ person I asked for help, but he claimed he didn't have time for 'rookies.' I'm not a rookie; I've been workin' toxicology for three years in Atlanta!"

Greg hated the smile that formed on his lips. This girl was young, naive, and enthusiastic. He knew from experience that Nick responded well to enthusiasm. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his. Maybe if he got it back, Nick might...

Greg shook his head to clear it and sighed. "Good. I mean, Hodges is a dick, it's common knowledge, but he's pretty good with trace evidence, which is pretty much the only reason we put up with him... And don't tell him I said he was good. That's the last thing he needs to hear."

"Ha, don't worry, I won't," she said. She frowned as she took him in. "You know, I've actually seen you around a lot. It's funny that we haven't met until just now. I've been around here about two months now."

"Yeah, that is funny," Greg said, not really caring at all. "I need to go, I, uh, have to talk to Nick about... stuff..."

"Sure thing," said Molly, hugging her papers to her chest. "I'll see you around, then? Don't be afraid to pop by to say hi, now. Ciao!" She walked passed him and away down the hall. Greg's eyes glanced downward, just to see what Nick had been looking at, and flinched to see that it was a fairly nice view. He hated to think that Nick might be interested in her. He hated to think that Nick could never be interested in _him._

* * *

He had gone home that morning exhausted, and yet he refused to take his pills. He recognized the symptoms, but he still believed that he could control what was happening to him, and so he tried. He didn't remember when his last dosage was, so he needed to detox. He could still handle this. He was sure of it.

But by midmorning, his sheets were tangled and drenched in sweat as he shivered, as if he had some sort of ruthless fever. And the worst part was, no matter how much he tossed and turned or what he did, sleep remained as elusive as ever, perpetually hiding just behind his pillow, which he was constantly turning over. He flipped onto his back, spreading his arms across the bed and stared at the ceiling with a whimper.

This was not going well.

It must have been a long time since he'd taken a dose of Valium for the withdrawal symptoms to be this bad. He glanced at his bedroom door with tired, bloodshot eyes. _It would be so easy_, he thought, _to just roll out of bed and go to the bathroom, swallow a couple pills, and then the pain would be gone and I could breathe again. I would _sleep_ again._

And sleep was a rare gem that he was very anxious to possess.

"I have to..." he panted, every muscle in his body sore, as if he had just run a mile without stretching. He groaned as he moved, his breathing labored, and he let out a broken sob as he reached the end of his bed. He stumbled to his feet, putting an angry palm to his forehead and pressing hard against his skull to hold back the migraine assaulting his senses. He was seeing spots, but tried to ignore them as he made his way blindly down the dark hall. He refused to turn on the lights, because he knew the warm, incandescent glow would blind him. He was getting headaches just putting up with the florescent glare in the lab.

Finally, he reached the bathroom and seized the bottle. It took him a moment to uncap it, with his shaking hands, but he finally did, and four tiny five milligram pills fell into his hand. They were in his mouth within seconds and he tried to dry swallow but gagged. He quickly ran the tap and stuck a glass beneath it before bringing it to his lips and tossing his head back.

He sighed when the deed was done, his migraine already beginning to fade away, and he dragged his feet back into the hallway and towards his bedroom. By the time he reached his bed, he was still trembling, but his breathing was normal, and the spots were gone, and he climbed on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling.

Little by little, a tingling sensation crawled through his muscles, unwinding them, massaging them, and they were no longer heavy or sore and he relaxed into his mattress, allowing his eyes to close as his mind drifted away from him.

He shouldn't worry about the Valium thing. Withdrawal was a bitch, but so long as he had the pills, he could make everything better again, and things would be fine.

Valium made everything fine.

Greg would be just fine...

* * *

The work days were growing longer and Greg's doses were increasing. When he was not on his medication, he was constantly worried about this. But when he was, he somehow managed to convince himself that it wasn't a problem. And the worst part was, he was beginning to prefer himself on his medication than off of it. He didn't _want_ to stop.

To make matters worse, Nick placed a delicate hand on his back as he stood hunched over a table, sorting through evidence, this time the contents of their DB's purse. It was hot but welcome, heavy on his back, forcing his damp shirt against his skin where Greg could feel the individual fibers, imagined what Nick's fingertips would feel like tracing circles on bare skin.

"Are you OK? You're sweating."

"It's a little hot in here..." Greg mumbled, and in his defense, it was. The ventilation in the lab was obstructed, and while they had been assured that mechanics were working on it, Greg felt like they couldn't fix it fast enough. Without circulating air, everything seemed stale and stifled, and it was making him rather claustrophobic, even though the room itself was rather wide. It made his throat close up, and his lungs struggle to breathe fresh oxygen. On top of that, the lights were bothering his eyes again.

He pulled at his already very loose collar, as if it would help, and swallowed to open his airways, trying to focus on his job.

"Mm..." Nick mumbled. "Yeah, a bit. Want me to open the door?"

"No, I can handle it," Greg replied, opening a tube of lipstick. It had been broken off at the end, the top of it smudged. "Hey, uh... um..." _Oh God, I've forgotten his name!_ "Uh..."

"What?" the Texan asked.

"Nick!" Greg cried triumphantly, eliciting a confused look from his friend. But he beckoned him over, trying to play off his enthusiasm as excitement over a possible discovery. "Look at this. Seems to me the lipstick was open, got snapped off, and was hastily resealed. On top of that, there are Altoids all over the bottom of her purse. You think someone else was in this bag other than her?"

Nick took the lipstick in his gloved hand and examined it. "Could be... I'll print it and send it to Mandy to see what she comes up with." He smiled, almost proudly. "Good job, Greg."

The younger man sighed, out of breath, and nodded as he folded his arms. "Yeah, occasionally I get something right."

The Texan smiled warmly. "More than occasionally," he said reassuringly. He held up the tube. "I'm gonna get on this. How about you go and take a break? You look like you need it."

"Yeah..." Greg replied, breathless. He tried to smile, but it felt out of place somehow. Alien.

Nick exited the room and Greg tried to relax. He couldn't. So instead, he followed Nick out, intending on walking about outside in the cooler night air. Maybe his lungs would open up again.

He walked swiftly down the hall, the florescent light flooding his vision, causing periodic colored spots to appear and Greg knew that it was the beginning of a migraine that he wouldn't be able to ignore. But just as he reached the lobby, he stopped dead.

Camellia was leaning casually on Judy's desk on her right elbow, her body facing David Hodges, who seemed to be in deep conversation with her. His face was deathly serious but she was smiling, clearly amused, her eyes focused on him. After a moment, she glanced over his shoulder and noticed Greg. Her smile broadened and she waved.

Hodges turned around. "Oh, hey, Sanders," he greeted. He turned back to Camellia. "So you really _are_ here for _this _Greg? Are you _sure_?"

"Shut up, Hodges," Greg murmured distractedly as he approached the woman at the center of his problem. "What are you doing here?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

She gestured innocently at Judy and Hodges. "I just wanted to see where you worked! I was curious, Conejo."

"_What_ did she call you?"

"I said, shut _up_, Hodges," Greg said again, this time without even looking at him. "You aren't supposed to be here. You should go."

"Come on, sugar, I haven't seen you in weeks," she said. "You never call, you _never_ write... Have you lost my e-mail, cariño?" She pouted dramatically and he rolled his eyes.

"What do you want?" he demanded quietly, his eyes darting around as he tried not to attract anymore attention to himself.

Hodges made that task impossible. "You mean she really _is_ your girlfriend?!" Hodges proclaimed loudly to the entire lobby. Greg whirled around and glared at him with the fury of a demon. Hodges held up his hands defensively and stepped backwards. "Sorry, Sanders, I just thought she wasn't your type is all."

Her hands slid around his waist, her palms climbing up his chest as she rested her chin on his shoulder, her silken hair brushing against his ear. Greg sighed.

"I think you'd be surprised at what is Greg's type," she said, and even though he couldn't see it, Greg could hear the smirk in her voice.

And then, Greg's throat closed up and his heart dropped. Nick turned around the corner, his eyes on some papers, and then he looked up and stopped.

Camellia was now in the process of lightly kissing Greg's very pale neck, but Greg barely felt it. All of his attention was on Nick, and the oddly disappointed expression in the Texan's surprised eyes.

"Nick..." Greg managed to choke out, and Camellia looked up.

"The Texan tourist," she said pulling away from Greg and striding over to Nick, wiggling her hips as she went. "I should have known." She extended her hand to him. "My name is Camellia," she said.

Nick's tongue shot out to lick his lips and he gave a shallow nod at the vixen before taking her hand. "Nick."

"I gathered as much," she said.

He coughed, presumably to clear his throat as he shifted, seeming to come out of the trance Camellia had put him in. "I, uh... last time, I was just checking up on, uh... on Greg."

"Right," she said, nodding. "I understand."

Nick glanced up at Greg, who remained speechless. "He means a lot to me, ya know? I just... I wanna make sure he's OK. And you... I mean, you didn't _look_ OK. But the two of you, uh... you seem to be on the same wavelength, so I guess, uh..." He frowned and looked at his watch. "You know, there's, uh, something I have to go and, uh... do. So I'm just going to go and do that and leave you two to do your thing. OK?"

"Nick..." Greg began again, but his friend held up a tired hand.

"Don't, Greg," he said, and turned around shaking his head.

Greg hated the guilt that formed like a lead weight in his stomach.

Camellia turned back to Greg, glancing at Hodges, who was watching on in glee. Greg badly wanted to strike him, and was barely able to restrain himself as his fury with Hodges swiftly replaced his guilt over Nick.

"Wipe that dopy smile off your face, it only advertises what a stupid voyeur you are," he snapped instead.

Hodges hid a chuckle behind his hand before turning around and walking away. Greg raked a shaking hand through his moist hair.

"You don't look good, Conejo," said Camellia, almost sounding worried. She seemed to get an idea. "You know, I know _just_ the thing to make you all better."

His hand stopped in the middle of his scalp, his eyes glancing up at her in interest. "You do?" he asked.

She nodded, stepping closer and taking his free hand in hers. "Yes, Conejo. Come back to my place and I'll show you what I'm talking about. The gang's all there. They miss you, you know. You were quite the interesting stoner last time."

"Would you keep your voice down?!" Greg hissed, seizing her arm and glancing around nervously.

"What, you mean them?" she asked, gesturing at all the people bustling about, including Judy, who had turned back to her computer, ignoring Greg and Camellia again. Camellia moved towards Greg, pressing her body against his. "They're all caught up in their own busy lives, cariño. They have no idea about the fun we're up to."

Nonetheless, Greg still held his breath. He glanced at his watch. Shift wasn't over for another two hours. He looked up at the hall Nick had disappeared down and considered everything a moment. He moved closer to Camellia, so he could whisper in her ear.

"Do you have anything that could... make the withdrawal from the Valium not so intense?"

"Oh yes, Conejo," she replied. "I have everything you need."

Greg knew he was trembling, and sweating more than was usual in the dank air of the lab. He needed something to disguise these symptoms. He needed something that wasn't Valium to calm him down. Maybe Camellia could help him out with that.

"OK," he said, finally relenting. "Alright, I'll... I'll come." He broke away from her and put his hands on Judy's desk, making her look up. "Judy, tell Grissom that I, um, wasn't feeling well and headed out early to see a doctor."

She raised a curious eyebrow at Camellia and Greg knew that if she were the type to crack an inappropriate joke about 'playing doctor,' she would have. But instead, she simply said, "Please do. You look terrible."

"Yeah, so I hear," Greg mumbled.

"Don't worry about him," Camellia assured Judy, rubbing Greg's shoulders. "I am taking him to an herbal specialist. One hundred percent natural medicine. Come with me, Conejo..."

And with that, she guided him out of the lab, and back down the rabbit hole.


	8. The False Angel

_**Author's Note:**_ Another short chapter. I had to chop a long chapter in two, so you have two shorter chapters as a result. Thank you to all of you reviewing, you really make me smile, you do.

* * *

When he crossed the threshold into Camellia's home, the living room was filled with smoke. Looking around, Greg felt as if he had never left. Everyone was pretty much exactly where they had been when he had last seen them, except Gemini was missing.

"Rabbit!" chimed Misty eagerly, bouncing up and down. "Good to see you!"

"Hey there, G-man," Lyle purred from the couch, his arm around Misty. "How's it hanging?"

"Hola, Conejo," greeted Frank calmly from his usual armchair. "You look like shit."

"You know, I really wish everyone would stop telling me that," Greg sighed, feeling oddly at ease with this crowd, although it may have been the smoke. He slid comfortably into an armchair, _his_ armchair, the one he had spent four hours in the last time he was there. It felt like home.

"Want a joint?" Toxic offered, still by the coffee table rolling them.

"Rabbit is just going to have some tea today," said Camellia, her hands kneading Greg's shoulders. "Deus mio, cariño, your shoulders are _incredibly _knotted."

"You could probably benefit from Cam's tea," said Toxic. "It's cleared up a shitload for me in the past. Withdrawal?"

"Uh huh," said Greg.

"I hear ya," said Toxic, nodding. "Did some Diazepam in the past. Wasn't pretty."

"You do it anymore?" Greg asked.

"Nah," Toxic replied, dismissively. "Switched to Prozac. Much more effective."

"Hey, guys, I made brownies!" said someone entering from another room. Looking up, Greg saw the familiar purple head of Gemini, who stopped and waved at him. "New guy?" she asked. She set the brownies down on the coffee table. "I'm Gemini."

"Yeah, we met before..." Greg said with a small smile.

"Fuck, did we?" She laughed. "Oh yeah, I thought you were Jesus. Damn, that was some good shit. So what's your real name, Jesus?"

"We call him Rabbit," Frank informed her. "On account of how he fucks. Quick and often."

"Bullshit!" Misty laughed. "How do you know how he fucks?"

"Ah, querida, did you miss the sounds coming from my apartment last night?" He winked at Greg, who was not sure if he wanted to play along with this game or not. "Like a rabbit, I tell you."

Gemini laughed. "That's funny, Jesus. Do you really fuck like a rabbit?"

"Er... not that I've been told..." Greg said slowly. "Except, of course, by Frank over here."

"Bet you fuck like a dolphin," Lyle chimed. "Long and satisfying."

Greg tossed a grateful nod Lyle's way. "Thanks, man."

"Alright, here we go," said Camellia, entering from the same place Gemini had come from. Greg hadn't even realized that she'd left. He presumed that the fumes in the room were beginning to get to him, as his body was also beginning to tingle. Camellia was carrying an odd looking cup on a saucer, and handed it to Greg, who peered inside.

"There you are, Conejo," she said. "Drink that and everything will be sunshine and roses, cross my heart."

"What's in it?" Greg asked.

"All natural herbs, my special blend," she assured him, but there was something odd about her smile. Then again, there was _always_ something odd about Camellia's smile. "If you like it, I can sell it to you. For a price, of course."

"That reminds me, bro..." said Lyle from the couch. "You still owe me twenty for that cab."

"Right!" Greg cried. "Shit, uh..." he dug in his back pocket. "Sorry, man, I don't have it on me today..."

"S'OK," Lyle sighed. "We're buds now, everything's cool. I just remembered it is all. Aw, Jesus, hey, Cam, you got any—"

"Of course, sugar, I've got some in the kitchen."

"Thanks, you're a doll..." sighed Lyle.

Greg looked at his tea again ominously as Camellia retrieved whatever it was Lyle had asked for and slid between him and Misty on the couch, tossing it to Lyle.

"Tha-ha-hank you," Lyle cried gratefully, pouring the substance onto the coffee table. He pulled a razor seemingly out of nowhere and began dividing it up. He looked back at Camellia again. "You got a—"

But she was already holding out a short straw, which he took.

"You are an angel, babe, an _angel_," he said, putting one end of the straw to his nose.

Camellia leaned back on the couch as a strange sucking sound of inhaled air ripped through the room twice and then Lyle was leaning back on the couch again, sliding Camellia some money, which she tucked under the collar of her blue halter top.

"Drink your tea, silly Rabbit!" Camellia ordered as her arm draped around Lyle's neck, stroking his hair even has his hand ran up and down her thigh, his body trembling slightly.

But Greg was far more interested in watching them, the tea still clutched in his hand, his mind reeling from the marijuana contact high. Soon enough, casual touching evolved into casual groping, and casual groping evolved into casual kissing. Lyle's arms were sloppily and hastily wrapped around Camellia as their lips danced. She moved her hands gracefully down his toned biceps, onto his stomach, up and down the side of his thigh, while his was clumsier, needier, much more distracted.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to stare?" Frank asked teasingly.

Greg blinked. "What? Oh, no, I—"

"Hey, it's all good," said Gemini. "I mean, hell, they're hot, aren't they?"

"I guess..." said Greg, blushing slightly.

Lyle broke away from Camellia's mouth, planting sloppy kisses down her neck and her gaze turned to Greg. "Conejo! Drink your fucking tea! I don't make that shit for just anyone, alright?"

"OK, OK..." Greg muttered, taking a tentative sip. It tasted strange, not like any tea he'd ever drank before, and the herbs were ones he could not identify, but at first, it did have the soothing effect Camellia had promised.

"You and, uh... Lyle do this often?" Greg asked conversationally.

"We do it when we feel like it," said Camellia, tenderly stroking Lyle's hair as his mouth reached the very low neckline of her shirt. "I do whatever I want when I feel like it."

Greg noticed then that Lyle was not the only one whose attentions were on Camellia. Misty had decided that she was interested in rubbing the New Yorker's shoulders and back, and this confused him slightly, lights dancing around them, and they were enveloped in a strange glow. The aura was fairly warm to Greg and it left him intrigued.

He took another sip of his tea.

The lights seemed to get darker but the colors seemed to get much brighter. Camellia turned her head to meet Misty's lips.

"Whoa..." Greg murmured, leaning back in his chair. "That's... you..."

He saw Camellia's lips curl, even as they were pressed against Misty's. She broke away to look at Greg as Misty continued her quest down Camellia's neck, while Lyle moved lower still.

"There is a popular theory that all human beings are inherently bisexual," she explained. "Most just tend to gravitate towards one side of the spectrum or the other. Me, I would say I land pretty much in the middle. Lyle and Misty both have similar tastes in sexual partners, namely women."

"Mm..." Misty intoned as she gently sucked Camellia's neck.

Greg took another sip of his tea. The room was beginning to dance. His headache was gone and his muscles were relaxing. The outlines of the people he watched grew wavy, as if he were looking at their reflections in water.

"I hear that..." Greg hoped he actually said, trying to express his agreement. "I myself have... that is... what?"

"Drink your tea, Conejo pequiño."

Her voice echoed in his head as he took a large gulp of his tea and he imagined that he was watching a television set, cable porn, or maybe _more_ than cable porn, he wasn't sure, because he couldn't exactly distinguish what was going on anymore. Misty, Camellia, and Lyle had turned into a very vague blob, a three-headed, six-armed, six-legged fornicating monster that melted on top of her couch.

Melting—that was it—everything was melting. Greg felt as if he were smack dab in the middle of a Salvador Dali painting, or maybe in a microwave with a marshmallow that was about to explode from the radiation. But it wasn't a _bad_ sensation, merely a strange one, slightly frightening, but he was too intrigued to dwell on his fear.

"What team do you play for?"

He wasn't sure who had asked him this question, though the voice seemed deeper than Camellia's, although that didn't mean she hadn't said it. Greg had heard distorted voices before on Valium, so it wouldn't be the first time.

"Any one that'll have me," Greg muttered, hopefully coherently.

A hand was on his knee. Whose hand, he couldn't tell you, and the world was beginning to rock back and forth as if he were on an ocean. Stars blinked in and out of his vision and butterflies flitted across the ceiling.

The hand crawled up his knee, under his shirt, and something like a spider crept over him, straddling him, hands suddenly on his shoulders, so _many_ hands Greg couldn't keep up, eight of them he thought, a mighty spider and his magical limbs. Glancing up, he saw black mountains with yellow peaks, a pale face smiling down at him, soft hands like fur moving up and down the side of his neck, like his cat Liver, or a fur stole. Greg was wearing a stole made out of Liver, and onions, maybe, if there was liver there had to be onions, and food, and he was hungry, but not for long, because someone was feeding him, someone's lips were on his, gruff and ravenous themselves, a slithery serpent's tongue sliding effortlessly into Greg's mouth.

The paws on his shoulder had claws, and they dug into his skin, taking control, but Greg rose to the challenge, embracing the chimera on top of him, hands roaming up beneath the beast's shirt to feel a scrawny, flat chest, his fingers moving up the ribs like the metal skeleton of an umbrella, thumbs rolling over two knobs he imagined were switches on a machine, a mechanical bull he would ride until he got bucked off.

Everything was yellow, and illogical and yet made perfect sense, and bestiality seemed so attractive to him, Greg just wanted to capture the animal that had so casually scuttled on top of him in a net and then fuck it senseless, fuck _himself_ senseless, but, but, but, oh, what was it? What was going on? Who was this strange creature that was inspiring such disconnected thoughts in him?

But then, the mouth of the great chimera withdrew, leaving Greg's mouth to open and close, not immediately recognizing its absence. He wanted more, _needed_ more, and reached out, opened his eyes, saw the black-and-white haired beast climb off of him with a hyena-like grin and move backwards.

And then, an angel obstructed his vision, clad in white, her brown hair glowing with a warm golden aura, her eyes a sparkle and she moved onto her knees, her hands sliding up the tops of his thighs, unbuckling his jeans, and he was ready to die, to be taken to heaven in the arms of this magical fairy, whose hands wrapped adeptly around him, whose hands began to move back and forth and Greg's head rolled back on his shoulders, unaware of the wild sounds that were escaping his lips.

Soon enough, she was ascending, hovering over him, whispering words in a dead tongue in his ear, her eyes so perfect they almost seemed cartoonish as she planted real butterfly kisses on his forehead—the kind from which actual winged insects spring—and they floated into the air and turned to stars in a celestial dance, swirling to create galaxies born of the union between an angel and a mortal.

She moved carefully up and down and with every rise and decent, Greg grew closer and closer to Nirvana, being blessed by some unearthly being, whose hair seemed like autumn spun into silk, whose face was a mask of majesty, whose demeanor was an entire symphony of lullabies of a cartoon masquerade.

And then, it exploded, he exploded, and the firmament above him shattered and came crashing down in shards of mirrored glass and he cried out, every last ounce of pleasure, his entire soul being drawn out of him, stolen by the angel, taken in her hands, and she ascended higher, abandoning him cold, alone, naked, and the sky kept falling and Greg ducked to shield himself from the tumbling glass and cried out desperately, frightened, but the angel was gone, transformed into a melting abomination, some disgusting merge between a nymph and a minotaur, or maybe it was a centaur, he couldn't be sure, but it was the most hideous chimera he'd ever seen.

He wanted the old one back.

Needed it back, he—

"Drink..."

But he didn't want to drink, still liquid poured into his mouth all the same, like rain, and he didn't know where it was coming from, because they sky had tumbled back down to earth and now there was nothing above them to shield them from the wrath of God, or gods, whatever the case may be, they were there, poking their heads up over the edge of the shattered sky and watching down condemningly, knowing every sin, every secret hidden shame, every dirty thought that you hide from everyone else because you _know_ it isn't normal, is in fact deviant, maybe even criminal, if you ever acted on it, and Greg knew with a startling clarity that no one was spared from damnation, that _everyone_ was going to Hell, and he would burn with all the rapists and pedophiles and murderers and he would be there right along with them, because there's no escaping the darkness, not for anyone, not even the fucking Pope.

There may not be a heaven, there might not even be a God, but there most definitely was a Hell, Greg was staring right into it, and he was horrified again, aghast, and no one else could see, or maybe they didn't care, but the Girl Made of Mist said something along the lines of, "Fucking hell, oh yes, baby, _there_!" and Greg knew it was an affirmation, a condemnation, _yes_, he was going to Fucking Hell, in fact, he was already there, and the Devil With The Spanish Accent cooed in his ear, "Fuck fast, fuck often, fast and often, fast, fast, fast—"

And somewhere in the distance, there was the sound of a train, but Greg didn't know where it was coming from, or why the walls looked like they were crumbling, or why the Poisonous One's mouth was on his knee, but he was scared, he wanted to go home, but he couldn't find the way back, he was scared, and he didn't understand, and the Demon With The Angel's Face was stroking—more like clawing—at his hair, whispering lies in his ear, quick fixes, contracts with the Devil—not the Spanish one, the Other One—sign here, and you can have all the drugs you want, all the quick fixes, all the fake happiness you could need, and all it'll cost you is your friends, your health, your life, your soul—your soul especially, even if somehow you manage to bargain everything away, keep the friends, keep the health, keep the life, you still lose your soul, because in a game of poker with the Devil, the house always wins.

He didn't want to sign the contract, but his blood was already on the paper, his name shining in red on the dotted line, and it was done, the deal was made, and it was over, his soul was gone, she had taken it from him in that last burst of intensity that he had left, and he was spent, and he was tired, and he wanted to die again, but this time he knew he wouldn't ascend. He whimpered, begged them to stop, begged to go home, begged for solace, and the Violet Twins were dancing on the table, and there were more than two of them, and they were laughing, singing, spinning themselves into oblivion, and then the False Angel said something incomprehensible before the visions and the fear and the epiphanies proved too much and his mind couldn't take it, and then he was dead.


	9. Be Careful

_**Author's Note:**_ And the other half of the short chapter. Thanks for all your reviews, they're really encouraging. :o)

* * *

Nick turned the corner into the toxicology lab, making the blonde temp look up and smile at him in greeting.

"Got your page," he said. "So, you have the report back on my vic?"

"Sure do," chimed Molly, handing him the chart. "She's clean."

Nick's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Huh."

"I know, I thought it was off too, considering what Greg found."

Nick looked up. "Greg?"

"Yeah, he, uh, said he was working the case with you?" Molly asked. "Funny how we hadn't met until the other night."

"Yeah, he's been a bit of a recluse lately... What did he say he found?"

"Diazepam," Molly replied. "Easy drug to use to sedate someone."

"She didn't have any Diazepam on her..." muttered Nick. "At least, not in the evidence I catalogued..."

Molly shrugged. "Maybe it was somethin' new. I'm sure he'll let you know."

Nick licked his lips, trying to think. "Yeah, I'm sure he will."

He was distracted by the sounds of Grissom and Catherine walking swiftly down the hall. "... day never ends, does it?" Catherine muttered, piquing Nick's interest, and he poked his head out, calling after them.

"Where are you two off to?"

"Druggie got his ass stabbed in a suburb," Catherine tossed over her shoulder. "Since it's on our shift, it's our concern. And I was looking forward to heading off early tonight." She cast an accusatory glance at Grissom, who didn't let on that he had noticed.

"Where's Greg?" asked their supervisor.

Nick looked around, a tiny blush creeping into his cheeks. He didn't want to admit that the last time he had seen his friend and coworker, the man had a hooker's arms around him. "Er, he should be around here somewhere."

"Aren't you working a case together?" Suspicion began to creep into Grissom's voice.

"Yeah... I'll find him," Nick assured Grissom with a nod, and the two of them were off again.

Nick sighed and leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. A small hand began to rub his upper arm in an awkward gesture of comfort.

"Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" Molly asked.

Nick rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. I think Greg's fallen into a bad crowd."

"Can't be that bad," said Molly. "Not with friends like you, I mean."

Nick opened his eyes. "When you met him earlier, what were your first impressions?"

"He seemed a bit out of it, but he was friendly enough," said Molly. "We bonded over our dislike of Hodges."

Nick gave out a curt laugh. "Well, you're the enemy of his enemy..."

"Oh!" said Molly, a thought suddenly occurring to her. "He did seem concerned that he was forgettin' things."

"Forgetting things?" Nick made a mental note to ask Greg about that. "Right. OK, thanks. I'm just... I'm gonna go look for him. Thanks for the tox results." He held up the paper and smiled, before dashing off down the hall to the lobby, where he saw Judy putting away some files, but no sign of Greg.

"Hey, Judy, have you seen Greg?"

She gasped. "Oh, yeah!" She silently chastised herself for something. "I was supposed to tell Grissom... He left with that girl. Said he wasn't feeling well."

Nick closed his eyes, disappointment flooding his system. "Thanks..." he said dully, and dragged his feet back into the lab.

* * *

He woke up with his face in the carpet. Every muscle was sore again, and his headache was worse than ever. He rolled over with a groan and squinted, light invading his pupils and he hissed in distaste, like a vampire. He painfully sat up, his skin crawling, and looked around.

Light was pouring through the blinds on the windows and it took Greg a moment to realize he was in Camellia's house. This was the _second_ time he'd woken up with a muddled brain because of her. It took a great amount of effort just to look around the living room.

Simply put, the place was trashed. Completely different from when he had first arrived. Greg did _not_ know what Camellia had put into his tea, but it definitely did _not_ help. In fact, he was fairly sure it made everything ten times worse. No one is in sight, and one of the couch pillows had been knifed and there was stuffing everywhere. One the chairs was tipped over, and a light bulb was broken.

And then, he noticed the folded piece of paper propped up on the coffee table. It read, in neat but somewhat shaky handwriting, "_Rabbit._"

He reached for it and delicately unfolded it, his brain throbbing, now a permanent addition to everything else inside his head. He had a feeling the bugger wouldn't be moving out anytime soon. He tried to focus on the words of the letter.

_Sweet Rabbit—_

_We had to leave pretty quick. Eat whatever you want from the fridge. Took forty bucks from your new wallet (left the wallet__—__it's nice, by the way) and left a fresh bottle in its place. Enjoy._

_Cam._

Groaning, Greg stretched out his shoulders and got to his feet, curious as to where his new friends had all gone. He ambled into the kitchen, noticing that some stale coffee remained in the maker. Too lazy to reheat it, Greg settled for pouring it over some ice. Unfortunately, it didn't succeed in chasing his headache away, but it did make him feel slightly better. He lightly sipped the coffee and exited the kitchen, looking back out at the trashed living room. He flinched when he noticed a used condom on the floor, a part of him wondering where it came from and another part of him preferring to remain ignorant on the matter.

And then, there was the sound of a key in the door. Greg tensed, taking a step into the living room, clutching his glass of iced coffee. He heard a door open and close, and then the jingling of keys and heels clicking against marble until the familiar Latina New Yorker entered the living room and stopped, noticing Greg was there.

She looked different in the daylight. Her mascara had run and she had a band-aid on her upper arm. Heavy circles were visible beneath her eyes and her hair was much duller than Greg was used to it being, a muddier shade of brown as opposed to the rich sienna he knew. It was somewhat frizzy, static electricity coursing through it, and she looked as if she hadn't changed her clothes since yesterday.

"Rabbit," she greeted. "You're up."

He simply nodded at this statement. "Where'd you guys go?" he asked, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of coffee.

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "It's been a long day, cariño," she breathed. "You'll have to be going into work again soon."

In spite of himself, he was concerned. "What happened?"

"Nothing that concerns you," said Camellia with a weak smile. "Sit down. Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"No thanks," Greg said, trying to manage a grim smile himself. "Not like the shit you fed me last night."

"Don't call it shit, it was good," Camellia sighed, falling into a nearby chair and bringing a red, long-nailed hand to her forehead. "Whoo... I am exhausted."

"It was no good," said Greg. "Didn't help me at all."

"You don't want the Valium, do you?" Camellia asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"I—" But she was right. He didn't. "Well... no, but the hangover from that isn't much better than the withdrawal."

"Believe me, the withdrawal will return," Camellia said sadly, rubbing her eyes. "The tea was just a quick fix. You'll want it again, when the withdrawal gets bad enough."

"I won't," Greg said resolutely.

Camellia brought her hand down from her eyes and looked up at him. "I thought you were through with the Valium? This'll help you quit."

"Then why'd you give me a refill?" Greg asked.

She yawned. "Figured I owed you. You can give it back if you like."

He took a seat near her. "And if I drink this... tea of yours for too long. I'll get addicted to that, too, won't I?"

She shrugged. "We all have our vices, querido. We never get rid of them, we just trade one for the other."

"Where are the others?" Greg asked. "I would have thought this was their second home."

"They'll be back," said Camellia. She looked up at him. "Will you?"

"I don't know..." Greg replied honestly.

"If you don't want the tea, then you don't have to have any more tea," Camellia assured him quickly, leaning forward in her chair and taking his hand in hers. "I don't want you to leave. If you're uncomfortable with anything, cariño, we can fix it... Did you ever smoke that weed I slipped you?"

"No," Greg said.

"It'll help."

"I'm tired of quick fixes..." Greg mumbled, reaching into his pocket and staring at the bottle Camellia had left there. "But I'm scared of what will happen if I just... stop. And tapering does no good for me. I've tried to drop my dosage, and my body flips by just a decrease of five milligrams. And then I just want more. I guess... I have no willpower."

Camellia got out of the chair and onto her knees, shuffling over to Greg, where she cupped his chin in her hands. "If you want to quit, I know you will. You are much stronger than the rest of us. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Because you have friends you can rely on," she replied. "We don't."

"What are you talking about?" Greg laughed. "You guys seem pretty tight."

"We came together because each of us had no one else. No one else who would care if we one day ended up dead in the gutter. But you _do,_ cariño. If you got s-sick, for example..." She seemed to stutter there, and Greg didn't understand why. "Or if you were injured, or in trouble, then I have seen the man who would pull you out of it. Who would stay at your side as you recovered, or d-didn't recover, as the case often is."

"Camellia, what's going on?" Greg asked. "You're sending me mixed signals, here. First, you tell me that you want me to stay. Second, you're trying to get me off drugs! What's your deal?"

Her hands were clammy against his cheeks, cold and wet. But she pushed him away and sat back on her knees.

"I don't know..." she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm sorry. You're right, do what you want. Take the weed. It will relax you. Come back... maybe next week. We'll all be better by then, and I'll be back to normal. None of this crazy stuff." She tried to smile, but it was false. "Promise."

Still slightly confused, Greg rose to his feet and made for the door.

* * *

"Where did she take you?" Nick dared to ask a few days later.

"I'm sorry...?" Greg said, confused.

He looked up from across the layout table. "Camellia. Where did she take you?"

It always seemed to take Nick a few days to work up the courage to ask Greg about these things. He wondered how long this had been bothering Nick, and what else would continue to bother him until he asked about it weeks later. "I don't know... out."

"You were sick, right?" Nick asked, as if Greg's health were up for debate.

"A bit."

"She take you to a doctor?"

"Um... yeah," Greg half-lied. She didn't take him to a doctor, but to be fair, she did help his withdrawal symptoms, if only for a while.

"Hm..." Nick seemed unconvinced as he fiddled with some evidence photos.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg probed.

Nick looked up. "Nothing, I'm just wondering what type of doctors a prostitute would know."

Greg didn't exactly understand the anger that bubbled in his stomach at that comment. "Are you trying to imply something about Cam, Nick?"

"You call her Cam?" He suppressed a smile. "I mean, no, I'm not trying to imply anything, Greg."

The tension in the room was palpable. If either one of them had held a knife at that moment, neither one could have been responsible for the outcome. Greg clenched his jaw. "Don't talk about her like that."

"Like what?" Nick asked quickly.

"Just..." Greg held his breath. "Just don't talk about her at all, OK?"

"Are you falling for, Greg?" Nick whispered. "Because she's a—"

"Don't _call_ her a _prostitute_!" Greg yelled, startling the Texan.

He pursed his lips. "I was going to say 'liar,'" he uttered.

Greg tried to catch his breath. His permanent headache, which had returned only a day after his questionable tea treatment, tapped on his brain, warning him that a fight with Nick was a bad idea. "She's helping me, Nick."

"Yeah, so I saw," Nick said with a scoff.

"Stop _talking_ about things you know nothing _about_—"

"So _tell_ me about it!" Nick interjected.

Greg shook his head. "Did you find the spatter patterns?"

Nick watched him a moment, his chest rising up and down, before he blinked and moved some photos around on the table. He coughed. "Uh, yeah, I..." He looked up, pushing the photos across the table at Greg, who took them and flipped through them.

"Thanks..." Greg muttered. "I'm gonna see if our weapon could have caused all this damage."

Nick nodded, his lips pursed, as Greg turned to leave. Greg was almost at the door when his colleague called after him. "Greg?"

The younger man paused, his eyes on the floor, but he said nothing.

"Just be careful, OK?"

Greg sighed. "I always am," he replied.


	10. Flying High

_**Author's Note:**_ Apologies for the blatant _Angels'_ reference, but I love that series so damn much. Em... In a few days I'll be going on a road trip. Internet access will be iffy (depending on what the hotels we stay at along the way offer). Just a warning, updates may not be so frequent then. The trip is from DC to LA, which should take somewhere between four and five days, just to give you an idea. Once again, thanks to eowid-dot-com and my "field researcher" Tom for info on drug trips, and to LaughableBlackStorm for the beta.

* * *

But for weeks, he was _not_ careful, or at least not as careful as Nick would have liked. He continued in his habit, no longer a hobby, even though the withdrawal symptoms came more quickly, and the doses were increasing. He recognized the trouble, but his work was not effected. He didn't smoke marijuana, or do any other drugs when he used the Valium. If he ignored the withdrawal symptoms, he was fine. So he tried to ignore it.

Until one day after work, Greg came home to an obnoxiously hungry cat. Still, he enjoyed having_ something_ to come home to, even if it was a demanding animal who believed that he owned Greg. After all, Greg had had worse live-in lovers in the past.

He made his way groggily to the kitchen and poured some dry food into Liver's bowl, popping open a fresh can of wet food and scooping half of it on top. He lowered the dish to the kitchen floor.

"There you are, Your Majesty. Your gourmet meal is served," Greg muttered.

He left the cat to eat as he moved further down the hall and into his room, where he opened his drawer, the marijuana staring at him, and the pills burning a hole in his pocket.

_I'm fucked_. That was the fact of the matter. No matter which angle Greg looked at things, he _knew_ he was in trouble, he just wasn't sure how to get out of it. The first step was admitting the problem, but as for the other eleven, all that crap about God, seeking help, listening to junkies drone on and on about how helpless they were to resist their sweet drugs, gain _chips_ as a sign of sobriety... Greg wasn't ready for any of that yet.

So it was just more _convenient_ for him to pretend. "I don't have a problem," Greg said out loud, staring at the marijuana. Not because he believed it of course, but because he needed to ignore the truth if he didn't want things to change. Because Greg wasn't ready to change.

Alone in his apartment, the truth was blatantly clear in a way that it never was when he was sedated or engrossed in a case at work. His cat seemed to hover like a silent watchman, accusing him every time he even considered increasing his dosage.

He wondered what his cat would do if...

"Fuck this," Greg mumbled, pulling out his pills and pouring an indeterminable amount into his hand, setting them on the bedside table. He went to his closet, pulled out a box of his college memorabilia from under his shoes and scrounged around inside of it until he pulled out a dusty old pipe. Ever conscious of hygiene, Greg washed it first, before scooping up his fistful of Valium and packing the weed Camellia had given him ages ago into the bowl.

He swallowed, and he smoked.

He flipped on the TV. It flickered to life, the sounds of HBO filling his room, and a miniseries Greg had seen a long time ago was in the middle of the beginning. He leaned back on his bed and watched as _Angels In America_ began to play and Al Pacino was telling the Mormon about how to succeed in politics.

The world began to tip. His muscles felt like water. He fell backwards onto his bed as the ceiling began to change color. He closed his eyes and floated somewhere far away, his worries melting off of him and pooling into a puddle on the floor. He rode the waves of his high as he continued to inhale the smoke, leaning back into his pillow.

He was completely content, a barrier of cushy apathy surrounding him, muffling out any unwanted thoughts or sounds, or anything that might upset him, like a pillow over his face. Only, he wasn't struggling to breathe. He could breath just fine. The air that entered his lungs was fresh and crisp and, on occasion, smoky, when he wasn't too lazy to bring the pipe to his mouth.

Momentarily, he wondered what the air in Antarctica smelled like.

"I can take you there."

Greg turned his head to see a very relaxed man in shades with a cigarette sitting poised in a chair by Greg's window, his wide smile standing out against his dark features. A badge that read IOTA rested on his lapel and a tattered brown briefcase was leaning against the wall.

"Wait, I know you..." Greg said, rolling over on his bed. "You're—"

"Mr. Lies of the International Order of Travel Agents at your service."

"No..." said Greg slowly. "_You're_ Jeffrey Wright. You were in that movie, um..." He gestured at the TV, which was flashing images, but no sound anymore.

"So, is it Antarctica you want to go?" Mr. Lies, or Jeffrey Wright, depending on who you believed, asked. "Beautiful this time of year. Hole in the ozone, don't you know. Makes the stars sparkle."

Greg took a deep breath, his eyes wide. "I took too many pills, didn't I?"

Mr. Lies smiled that broad smile. "You took too many pills, my friend."

Greg fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. "This is very, very new, I've never hallucinated on Valium before." He tilted his head up to view Mr. Lies. "Do you think it's the weed?"

"If I recall my high school biology class, a side effect of Diazepam can be hallucinations," Mr. Lies informed him succinctly. "Now, I have several packages and can get you anywhere you wanna go, any way, any time."

Greg contemplated this for a moment before sitting up on his bed. "I don't want to go anywhere..." he said. "Say... you're a hallucination, right?"

"That's what it says on my card."

"So you can be anything I want you to be..." Greg said slowly.

Mr. Lies' lips twitched. "I can take you anywhere you want to go. But I cannot be anything other than what I am."

"Philosophy, a favorite among hallucinations," Greg muttered. "Seriously, though. If I wanted you to be someone else, you could be, right? I mean, hallucinations are just waking dreams and... and lucid dreaming can control your dreams. So if you know that you're dreaming, and I know I'm hallucinating, then..."

"Do you know what your problem is?" Mr. Lies asked. "You fight too hard for control."

"I like control," Greg said. "Control means... that nothing can go wrong. If I'm in control, then I'm safe. Bad things happen when I'm not... When I lose control."

"You mean like seeing a fictional travel agent?" Mr. Lies surmised.

"I..." He hadn't really thought about it. He smiled. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"See, it's not so bad to be out of control," Mr. Lies said. "Just sail the ocean of relaxation and let the current take you where it will."

Greg sighed. "I do like that. The relaxation thing. It's... soothing."

"Out of sheer curiosity, my friend, who did you want me to turn into?"

"A friend..." Greg whispered.

Mr. Lies cocked an eyebrow. "More than a friend?"

"Unfortunately not, that's why I wanted to see him here, so I could have him in my dreams at the very least."

Mr. Lies smiled. "Well, I am sorry I cannot be that accommodating."

"This is a lousy hallucination," Greg groaned, falling back on his bed.

Mr. Lies said nothing in return, so Greg contented himself with staring at the ceiling, the buzz of the marijuana gently washing over the frustration from his last conversation, soothing his wounds, numbing them until a smile finally claimed his features.

He heard the door open and his lids slid over his eyes. He wasn't sure how much time had passed between the last words of Mr. Lies and the beginning of this new hallucination, but frankly, he didn't care, because warmth flooded his body.

"Oh, Greg... what are you doing?"

Greg rolled over onto his stomach and smiled at Nick, who was returning the sentiment with gusto as he closed the door behind him.

"Now _this_ is more like it," said Greg as Nick entered the room and kneeled down next to his bed. "This is a hallucination I can get into."

"How do you know I'm not real?" Nick asked, although the playful manner in which he said it clearly spoke for itself.

"Come on," said Greg. "Do you _normally_ wander around my apartment shirtless? This could only be the product of my very damaged psyche."

Nick chuckled lightly in his chest, his smile still in place as he gently leaned forward. Greg closed his eyes, his mouth partially open expectantly, when he felt a pair of silken dry lips brush lightly against his forehead. He opened his eyes.

"Huh?"

Nick smiled again, reaching up and cupping Greg's cheek, running his thumb along his cheekbone. "The thing about cocoons, is they must eventually be shrugged off, and a new being emerges. Do you like what you've become, now that you're blossoming out of this cocoon of yours? Are you satisfied?"

Greg shook his head, slowly at first, lusting after those lush lips. "No... no, I'll never be satisfied, not when I can't have you."

Nick pulled away, his hand dropping back to his side and Greg leaned forward, chasing it with his heart, his chest leaning forward, but he held back, his breath snagging on the nail of his want inside of his throat. "Lie down, Greg," Nick said, and surprisingly, Greg obeyed, falling backwards into the supple ocean of his bed, allowing the waves of linen to surround him.

Nick took the pipe from beside Greg's bed and lit it, passing it to the man on the bed, who took it.

"Breathe," ordered Nick, and once again, Greg unquestioningly obeyed. The smoke filled his lungs, drowning his consciousness in a haze of pink and gold, the sunset on his sanity in a polluted sky.

He was at ease again. He smiled as he beckoned his hallucination. "Come to bed."

"The last time you had sex in this state, you thought you'd gone to Hell," Nick commented.

"She was an angel..." Greg recalled.

"With a demon's heart," Nick added.

"But you're neither," Greg observed. "You're just Nick. So come to bed."

"I'm not an angel or a demon, that's right, G, but I'm not Nick either."

Greg sighed, his eyes half-lidded. "I don't care what you are, I just want to feel you."

"I am a placebo," Nick told him sincerely, but he climbed up onto the bed all the same. He gently ran the back of his fingers down Greg's arm, barely touching the skin at all, but Greg felt everything, his senses heightened.

"Closer..." Greg whispered, and it was Nick's turn to obey Greg's whims. The false Texan inched closer, the strange smile on his face growing a millimeter longer. "I need..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He'd forgotten how to speak. Yet again, Nick Stokes, or the image of Nick Stokes at the very least, had stolen his breath.

Nick's hand moved upward, twirling a single strand of hair around his finger. Greg moved his head up to feel Nick's hand against his skin, but his imaginary friend pulled away at the last moment, and Greg felt nothing.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"To make you understand that this is fleeting," Nick replied simply, logically.

"Life is fleeting. Nothing's for sure except death and taxes, right? So kiss me already."

"Death and taxes... I know one of them for you is closer than the other," Nick said ominously.

"Oh shit, did I forget to file my tax returns again?" Greg asked.

Nick smiled mysteriously. "I miss you."

"You can't miss me, you're a hallucination," said Greg, moving closer to Nick on the bed, but the latter moved backwards.

"He misses you," Nick corrected.

"Bah," Greg said dismissively. "You're only what I think he would say. You're only what I _want_ him to say." He pouted. "Kiss me... dammit, or I'll..."

"You'll what?" Nick almost dared.

"Die," said Greg with a sigh, closing his eyes.

"Prophetic, don't you think?"

Greg's eyes opened blearily. "Why?"

"Because without him, I think you truly will."

"No," said Greg, shaking his head. "It's an expression."

"Addiction kills," Nick pointed out.

"Only sometimes," Greg snapped defensively. "Only when you're stupid." He glared. "Go away. I want the travel agent back."

"I cannot be anything other than what I am."

"Fuck you," Greg snapped, but then he became too lazy to care. His eyes felt heavy again, the hazy happiness returning. "Fuck you..." He closed his lids as the world slowed down, held them closed for a second, and when he opened them up again, he was in his dark room, alone, staring at the wall. The TV was still on, rolling somewhere in the middle of the six hour series, but he wasn't sure where, or how much time had passed.

He took deep breaths. His head was still heavy. The pipe was beside him on the bed, embers glowing.

Greg sat up and his head spun. He seized the pipe and packed it with more marijuana, lighting up and inhaling even as his stomach grumbled. _At least nobody died from weed_, he reasoned.

He finished the bowl and rose to his feet and wavered, a smile claiming his features as his thoughts began to become slightly disjointed. He giggled aloud, gripping the doorframe as his knees began to tingle, and stumbled down the hall to his kitchen, where he tried to make a sandwich and failed miserably. He also concluded that handling a knife in his condition was probably not the best idea, so he settled for ordering Szechwan Chicken from his favorite Chinese place.

He sat down at his kitchen table and immediately forgot what he was doing there. He stared at the wall for a moment as he tried to think, which was becoming increasingly difficult. And then, finally, it occurred to him, and he grabbed his phone, pulling it close to him.

He forgot which number would connect him with the Golden Dragon. He thought it could be four, but it might be seven. He called them a lot, so speed dial was much easier to manage. He tried four, because he was really getting good vibes from the number four, which practically danced on the number pad and winked at him seductively. This image made him giggle again, and he excitedly punched four and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I'd like a, um... oh damn... hang on..." He tried to remember what he wanted.

"Greg, is that you?"

"Yeah, yeah, Greg, you're good!" he said. "Must got my number or somethin'... um, yeah, so the usual... whatever that is, the chicken thing, you know?"

"What are you going on about?"

"Pizza would probably have been easier..." Greg mused. "No weird names and I could just say... Hey, what's that yellow stuff they put on pizza?"

"Greg! What's the matter with you? Are you on _crack_?!"

Greg giggled again. "Nope. Guess again!"

"What?"

"This is fun, guess again!"

There was a pause on the other end. "Greg...? Are you OK?"

"Fabulous, Chinese Food Lady," Greg replied, and then it dawned on him. "Szechwan Chicken! Ha! What a fun word to say... Sesh-waaaaaan." He laughed about this a moment, resting his head against the kitchen table. "Feed me some sesh-waaaaan chicken please, Chinese Food Lady." And he was laughing again.

"Greg, you're beginning to scare me. What's going on?"

"Oh, are you guys not twenty-four hours?" Greg asked. "Because... um, my bad if you're not. I'll just order pizza. Hey, what's that yellow stuff they put on pizza?"

"Oh Jesus, you're _high_, aren't you?!"

"Ding-ding-ding! Give the Chinese Food Lady a prize!" Greg cried, leaning back in his chair.

An exasperated sigh came through from the other end. "Oh, Greg..."

"What's your name?" Greg asked. "I feel funny calling you by your profession."

"Greg, you didn't _call_ the Chinese food place, you called _me_!"

"Mi! What a fun Asian name! What region is that from?"

"Greg!" the lady snapped irritably.

"What?" Greg cried back. And then, he had another thought. "Oh, is your name Mi-Greg? What a coincidence, I—"

"Greg, it's me, Sara!"

"Mi-Sara!" Greg said, nodding in understanding. "Pretty. You know, I once knew a girl named... What's your name again?"

"_Sara_, Greg, it's _Sara_, you called _Sara_!"

Greg blinked. This didn't compute in his brain. "That's a long name," he said instead.

She growled. "That's it, I'm calling Grissom—"

"No!" Greg exclaimed. "No, no, no, no, no, no Grissom! I did not order any Grissom! No _thank _you!"

"Greg—" Her voice was stern and unforgiving. "You listen to me, and you listen _very_ closely." There was silence. "Are you _listening_?!"

"Yes!" Greg replied, exasperatedly. "That's why I wasn't _talking_!" His stomach growled and then meowed. He wondered if he'd inhaled a cat in his sleep, when something furry rubbed up against his calf. He grinned and looked under the table to see a gray eye and a yellow eye staring back at him.

"You're the colors of Halloween!" he said excitedly. He reached out and scooped the thing up, though it struggled mildly, and plopped it onto his lap, where he began to pet it, the fur against his skin incredibly soft.

"Greg! You're not paying attention to me, are you?!"

He blinked. "Oh yeah... What'd you say?" He pet the cat again and laughed. "Sheesh, Mi, you should pet this cat, it's so soft..."

"And it's the colors of Halloween, I heard," she muttered dully. "Are you listening to me now?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Greg mumbled, staring at the cat. Vibrations began to accompany the soft fur and it made him giggle.

"You are going to tell me why you smoked up, or I'm calling Grissom."

"No Grissom, no Nick," said Greg.

"Nick...?"

"No Nick, please no Nick..." Greg begged. "Oh, Nick..."

"What about Nick?"

"Huh?"

"Nick, what about Nick?"

"Nick's not here."

She growled in frustration. "Why did you get high, Greg? Tell me that right now, or... Or I'll call Nick!"

Greg panicked and tried to think. "I was... bored, I think. I don't remember."

"You don't _remember_?"

"You should pet this cat, it's so soft..."

"You don't _remember_?!"

"Remember what?"

There was a click and she was gone.

Greg pulled the phone away from his ear. "That was a very strange phone call... I hope they got my order right... Was that the pizza or the Golden Dragon?"

The cat leapt off of his lap and trotted out of the kitchen again. Greg groaned and rested his head on the table, the world spinning. Eventually, the cat came back and issued a quiet meow, before leaping up onto the table and nuzzling Greg's forehead. He giggled.

"You're soft," he said with a smile, reaching out and petting the cat, which purred at his touch. But it nudged Greg's forehead, its cold nose making him recoil. "What do you want?" Greg asked, sitting up, and Liver leapt down into his lap, where he circled once before curling up. Greg smiled, and his arms encircled the old cat.

Greg sighed, thinking this was exactly where he wanted to be, here in his kitchen without any cares and a cat on his lap. There was a knock at his door, and for a moment he was confused. He wasn't expecting anyone... was he?

His eyes fell on the phone as he tried to remember, and then a conversation about Chinese food drifted into his mind.

"Food!" he exclaimed, sitting up. He pushed his cat off of his lap and skipped out of the kitchen and to the door, behind which someone was still knocking impatiently. "Food, food, food!" Greg repeated with a grin, throwing open the door without even thinking to check who might be behind it first.

His excitement melted into confusion as he noticed a familiar, burly man, in a dark T-shirt, but stranger still, he wasn't carrying Chinese takeout boxes. Or had Greg ordered pizza? He couldn't remember.

In any case, the man sighed, his face falling in visible disappointment, which made Greg disappointed, which led to the epiphany that he was terribly empathic when he was high. "Oh, Greg..."

"Oh Greg, what?" he asked. "Did you forget my food?"

His visitor chewed on his lip and wavered before his expression hardened and he seized Greg by the shoulders. "Do you not even _recognize_ me?!"

If he hadn't before, he definitely did then, and it definitely made a dent in his shiny euphoria. "Nick..."

"Yes," said Nick, his eyes stern as they locked with Greg's.

But the younger man's attention span was that of a minnow's, and he failed to maintain that eye contact as his gaze wandered off to the side. Nick shook him again, almost violently, forcing Greg's attention back on him.

"Nick!" Greg said again, as if he was just noticing him for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

Nick was trembling, but Greg couldn't understand why. The Texan's hand flew to his forehead and then he withdrew it. He ushered Greg inside his own apartment and closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it to face Greg, who had seen Liver enter the room and scooped him up, heading in the direction of the couch, where he sat down and stroked the cat.

"He's soft," said Greg to Nick. "You wanna feel?"

"No," Nick said sharply. "Greg... what have you _done_ to yourself?"

Greg put his hands over his ears. "Please don't sound upset. If you get upset, I'll get upset, so let's not be upset in here, 'K?"

Nick was taking deep breaths and Greg turned to look at him with wide eyes, clinging to Liver, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the younger man's grip and was starting to squirm a little. The Texan shuddered purposefully and shook his head violently before staring at Greg with a peculiar expression.

"How much have you smoked?"

"Dunno..." Greg said, thoughtfully. "A bowl... bowl an' a half." He glared at Nick. "_You_ gave it to me."

Nick cupped a hand to his mouth as he trembled on the spot.

Greg didn't understand why he was so upset. He gestured at Liver. "He's soft. You wanna feel?"

"You do this often?" Nick's voice quavered only slightly.

Greg shrugged. "Nah, not really..." It was the truth. This was only the second time he'd attempted marijuana.

Nick sighed, seemingly in relief. He looked down at his watch. "You know, you have to be at work in twenty minutes?"

"Nah..." said Greg, waving dismissively at the older man. "Stick around, watch some TV... have a beer!"

But Nick shook his head. "No, I..." He sighed. "This isn't often? Right?"

"Right," Greg assured him.

He nodded. "OK. Um... I'll tell Grissom you're going to be late. Again." He raked a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Greg... If you miss many more days, you might lose your job. And there won't be anything that Grissom or I can do to keep that from happening. Ecklie's already been on Grissom's back about your attendance record and I..."

This lecture may have interested a sober Greg, but as it was, his attention was far too precious to waste on such tedious bureaucratic affairs. He'd stopped listening at "lose your job." He began to fantasize about all the things he could do_ without_ a job. He could jet to Hawaii and go hang gliding. Or sail to Antarctica to see the hole in the ozone... even though he knew that he couldn't really see it. Or maybe he would—

"Greg, are you even _listening_?!"

"No..." Greg said honestly with a laugh. "What? You worry too much. Stick around, watch some TV... have a beer!"

Nick growled and threw his arms up into the air in frustration. "I can't even _talk_ to you like this, can I? When the hell did you start smoking _weed,_ anyway?"

"How about you just cool it, alright?" Greg moaned, beseechingly. "You're totally bringing me down and I don't have to explain myself to you and... What was the question?"

Nick's jaw muscles had clenched, and Greg wondered if they were having an argument. "I'll tell Grissom you're sick," he said in a low voice. "I _will_ cover for you, just this once, but you have to _promise_ me, Greg, that..."

The cat's fur was really soft... It reminded him of old Persian carpets.

"OK?"

"Yeah," said Greg, unaware of what he was affirming.

"You understand, then?" Nick pressed.

"Totally. One hundred percent comprendo, señor!" He even saluted.

Nick seemed to relax a fraction and he nodded. "OK. Just so long as you understand where I'm coming from..." He went to the door. "I'll say you're sick. Don't come in today. I don't want you working on the after effects of a marijuana high." He sighed and opened it, pausing to look back at Greg, who was already fascinated by the magazines on his coffee table. "I'm worried about you, G," he said, and then he closed the door.

Greg heard, but did not register these words. He was far more interested in how much hotter the girls in his Playboys looked when he was high.

He did, however, feel a sinking feeling and a chill upon Nick's absence.

This feeling was swiftly forgotten.


	11. The Morning After

_**Author's Note:**_ OK. I'm leaving tomorrow. Here's your last chapter for maybe a few days. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all your reviews and stuff! You guys rock, seriously!

* * *

Greg didn't even remember falling asleep, as was becoming habit for him, but he woke up with a cat purring heavily on his chest and a patchy, matted tail beneath his nose. He coughed, disturbing Liver, who meowed bitterly at this rude awakening. His claws tore into Greg's shirt and the human flinched as the sharp points poked into the skin of his chest, but did nothing as the cat used him as a scratching post before leaping onto the ground and slinking under the table, where he turned around and blinked up from the shadows with his eerily dual-colored eyes.

He meowed again, and this was a sound Greg was learning to recognize. Liver was hungry.

Stretching, Greg swung his legs over the side of the couch and made his way lethargically over to the kitchen. He was in the process of pulling the wet cat food out from the fridge when he froze, memories of conversations he'd had when he was high pouring back into his mind like floodwaters. Groaning, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the door to the freezer before closing the fridge door and going to the counter to prepare Liver's breakfast. The cat, never one to miss an opportunity, was weaving in between Greg's legs and meowing constantly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's comin'," Greg muttered as he scooped the remaining half out onto a bowl of dry food and tried to think of what he would do about Nick and... _Oh no, Sara_...

He groaned again at his idiocy and the odd conversation he half-remembered having with Sara. "Oh Jesus..." he murmured, running a hand through his own matted fur. "I need to do some _major_ damage control..."

He set Liver's meal down on the floor, and the cat pounced on it as if it were a mouse, before striding out to the living room, where he searched tediously for his phone. He walked back into the kitchen and stared at Liver with his hands on his hips. "I don't suppose _you_ know where my cell phone is, do you?"

The cat continued to eat and Greg rolled his eyes and was about to turn around when Liver looked up, but the feline wasn't looking at Greg. He followed his cat's gaze to the kitchen table where his phone rested quietly. He looked back at Liver, who was already eating again.

"I bet you're some sort of reincarnated Buddhist wise man or something..." Greg mumbled to himself before striding to the table and picking up his phone. He scrolled through recent calls and was disappointed to see that his suspicions were confirmed. He _had_ called Sara the night before.

Falling into the chair with a sigh, he called the number again and leaned his head on his hand as it rang a few times. Finally, she answered.

"Sara Sidle."

"Now, you see, if you'd answered your phone that way last night, we would have had a much clearer conversation," said Greg.

He heard a loud sigh on the other end of the phone, but when she spoke again it was with a smile in her tone. "Good morning, Greg, and welcome back to the land of the sober."

"Right," Greg muttered, annoyed with her already. _Why was everyone annoying him lately?_ "It's not like _you've_ never attempted an... an escape."

"Escape from what?" she asked curiously.

"What else but the mundane mediocrity that has become my life?" Greg returned, banging his head on the table and resting it there. "I am so tired of everything that is... me."

He heard her emit a contemptuous "Hmph." She took a breath, and then, "So what's going on in your life that it's spurred you to indulge in carcinogens?"

"Carcinogens?" Greg blinked. "I hadn't even thought of that..."

"Well?" Sara pressed. "Answer the question."

"Do you s'pose if I smoke pot, spray hairspray, stand by microwaves and eat my steaks very well done it'll help me die faster? I mean, I already dye my hair, there are carcinogens in that, too..."

"You want to die, Greg?" She sounded curious, but also cautious. Greg wasn't sure if she was putting on the casual façade to put him at ease, or if she really was taking this in a lighthearted manner.

"No, I don't want to die," Greg admitted, and it was the truth. "Least of all by cancer, I mean, damn, talk about a slow death. Nah, if I wanted to die I wouldn't use cancer."

"So, you're not smoking pot to kill yourself. Accepted. Then why are you?"

"For the obvious reason I already gave you," replied Greg, irritably. "To escape from my boring life."

"Your life is boring?"

"It always has been since you left, Sara, didn't you know?" He said it with a smile to flatter her, but there was a hint of mockery to his tone that he hadn't meant to include.

"Hm..." She paused, thoughtfully. "What about Nick?"

"What _about_ Nick?" Greg asked quickly.

"Did he come over last night?"

"Shit, so you _did_ send him, thank you for that," Greg said snidely.

"Don't be touchy, Greg, I had no idea how high you were, or why, and you mentioned his name and I... I thought maybe he would be better to deal with you than Grissom."

Greg frowned. "I... I said his name?" He didn't remember that.

"Yes, yes you did," Sara replied, matter-of-factly.

Greg held his breath. "Well... wha-what did I say?"

"What do you think you said?" Sara returned enigmatically.

Greg laughed. "Aw, see, you don't know anything."

"I know something's up with you and Nick, so please, enlighten me."

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to pour all of his secrets into her like jewels into a coin purse and then seal her lips with a smile and tell her to never mention it again. But he knew better than that. If he told her about Nick, she would urge him to confess his undying love in a poem or a balcony serenade ala Cyrano de Bergerac. If he told her about the Valium, she would ask why. If he told her he thought he might be addicted, she'd urge him to get help. If he told her he didn't want to, she would tell Nick. He had no doubt she would tell Nick. Because though he trusted Sara with his life, he knew that if one of the secrets he told her threatened that same aforesaid life, she would betray his trust in order to do what she thought would save said life. But Greg wondered if the life he had shared with Sara, before her exit, was the same life he had now. Indeed, Greg even wondered if his life was the same as it was only three months ago, before he had begun his self-regulated Valium regimen. And Greg wondered if it was a life worth saving anymore.

"Greg? Are you there?"

"Huh? Yeah, just... thinking."

"OK... I was worried you'd smoked up again." She was laughing, but it seemed forced.

"How do you feel?" Greg asked. "About... me smoking pot."

She hesitated. "Is it a regular thing?"

"No," he replied, honestly.

"Well then, I suppose... there are worse things you could do..."

It was Greg's turn to hesitate. "Right, so... you think it's OK?"

"Sparingly, marijuana is believed to have... a number of health benefits, actually," said Sara, impartially. "In large quantities it may be a cause of memory problems later in life, and retardation of reflexes, not to mention the cancer—"

"OK, right, yeah, I'm a chemist, I know what marijuana does. Could do, actually. Those tests are inconclusive. It's like... alcohol is good, unless you become an alcoholic."

"Right," Sara said. "So long as you understand."

So marijuana wasn't an issue to Sara. He wondered... "Hypothetically speaking, if... a person with anxiety and stress, a, um... a doctor, who knows stuff, right, self-prescribes some medication which could possibly be addictive... Now, it's unethical, sure, but do you think it's necessarily a—"

"There are reasons why we have laws against doctors and self-prescriptions," said Sara immediately. "Of course it's stupid on the doctor's part. He may think he knows what's good for himself, but we're always a biased judge about that, aren't we? We put too much stock in our own knowledge, and too much weight on our wants, without taking the time to think if medication or... or leaving somewhere you call home, for example, is... is really the best thing for us. What the doctor has done is not only unethical, but unhealthy. He should discuss it with another doctor, if he really feels he needs the medication... Is this related to a case?"

"Yeah..." said Greg, absently. "Yeah, a, uh, case."

"Oh." She was quiet for a moment. "How are you handling your cases?"

"Pretty well..." Something occurred to Greg. "What do you mean leaving home?"

"It was a hypothetical," she replied flatly.

Greg's brow furrowed. "Oh... Yeah, right, a hypothetical..."

There was a heavily pregnant pause, which eventually gave birth to an awkward goodbye.

"Look, I, uh, need to call Nick. We didn't leave on good terms yesterday..."

"Oh. OK, yeah, sure, of course. Call him. But don't forget to call me, too, every now and then."

"Yes... of course... bye." And he hung up, dropping the phone onto the table as if it had burned him.

He looked up at Liver, who had finished his meal and had taken to watching Greg in that peculiar way of his.

"What?" Greg demanded of the cat. "I'll call him. Just... give me a second... He's just finishing up his shift anyway. I don't want to bother him..."

The cat continued to stare, and Greg saw his own insecurities reflected in Liver's cloudy eye.

"OK, fine, you win," Greg grumbled and picked up his phone again, his nerves shaking as it rang.

"Stokes," greeted a solid Texan voice.

"Hey..." Greg began, awkwardly. "Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night..."

There was a pause. "Oh... Hey, Greg."

The disappointment in his voice was palpable. "You know, I'm sorry if I freaked you out or whatever yesterday, but it's not a frequent thing, really, and you have no business judging me about it. All that marijuana crap the government feeds you is bullshit anyway, so..."

"So you're an anarchist now?"

Greg couldn't tell from his tone what Nick was thinking and it bothered him. "No, I just..."

"What is this, Greg, the sixties? What are you rebelling against?"

"Nothing!" Greg snapped. "I'm not rebelling against anything, I just needed to relax, that's all."

"Yeah, well, you _relaxed_ yourself right past shift," said Nick.

"I don't even think that sentence makes any sense," Greg replied, although his muddled mind wasn't sure what did and didn't make sense anymore.

Nick sighed. "The point is, Greg, that there is a time and there is a place for everything..." He hesitated. "Look, something's going on with you, man, I can tell. You've been... withdrawn. Distracted at work, irritable, and Molly said that you found some Diazepam at a scene and you didn't even tell me about it? We're supposed to be working together here, Greg."

Shivers danced across Greg's skin at the mention of his drug of choice. His head was beginning to throb again and he felt his irritability level rise. "I know, I mean, I'm sorry, I got confused, the Diazepam, it was for another case, she... she confused me, OK?" And then, it just slipped out, bitterly, accusingly, and he couldn't take it back. "What do you _see_ in her, anyway?"

There was a pause. "What?"

"In that girl, the lab tech, that blonde, that—that—_fuck,_ I don't remember her _name_—"

"Molly, Greg, her name is Molly Hart."

"Oh wow, doesn't she sound like a wholesome hometown girl? That's why you like her, isn't it, because she's Southern?"

"What?!" Nick exclaimed again, this time more baffled than anything else. "Greg, what are you talking about?"

"OK, she's cute, I'll give you that," said Greg, reluctantly. Now that he opened the floodgates, he couldn't stop it, and the headache that had taken up residence in his skull was cheering him on. "Kinda sweet, too, I noticed how she tries to relate to everyone she meets in some odd way... But it didn't work. I mean, she's just... too much, she's... like, it's like she's... I dunno, she's _too_ sweet, actually, you know, like when you were a kid and you ate too many pixie sticks?"

"OK, so you don't like her," said Nick. "What's your point?"

"Why do _you_ like her is my point," Greg replied. "Why? Why?!"

"Calm down!" Nick cried. "What's the matter with you?"

"You won't answer my question," Greg returned, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his forehead, his headache dancing around inside of his skull, prodding the part of his brain right above his left eye with a very long and sharp stick. "Why do you like her?"

"Because I like damn near just about everyone, Greg!" Nick returned. "Hell, I even like you, despite how crazy you've been acting lately! What's your problem? Why are you—" He seemed to catch himself, gathered his wits, then continued in a harsh whisper. "Why are you smoking _pot_, Greg? Are you drinkin', too? Is this gonna be a _problem_, Greg, because you've come into work with bloodshot eyes before, and Molly said that you're worried about memory loss—"

"Molly said this and _Molly_ said that!" Greg interjected. "You sure do spend a lot of time talking to Molly!"

"We were _talking_ about _you_!" Nick yelled. "Greg, even a total stranger could tell that something is _wrong_ with you. Won't you _please_ tell me what it is?"

Greg was trembling fiercely by now, so badly that his phone was knocking against his ear. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling, raking one hand in his hair. "I need to stop this..." he said, mostly to himself. "I need to get out of here."

"What? Greg, where are you going?"

"I don't know yet..." Greg whispered, chills crawling across his clammy skin. "I just..." He closed his eyes and gripped his phone tightly. The lights in his kitchen were too bright. He closed his eyes tightly to save his pupils. "I have to go. I'm sorry, about the marijuana thing, I am, but..." He licked his chapped lips. "It won't interfere with my job."

"So you'll do it again?"

"Jesus, Nick, it's marijuana, not heroin!" Greg growled.

He heard heavy breathing on the other end of the line. "It's not just the marijuana, G. It's... everything. Everything that's wrong with you. I need to know, Greg. Greggo. Please, I _need_ to _know_."

"Why?" Greg demanded coldly, unable to keep his voice from shaking. "Why do you need to know? Why can't you just leave me alone? Yeah, I have problems, but I have always dealt with them on my own. I don't need you to—"

"But I need _you_!"

Greg was struck dumb, his breath catching in his throat as his mouth went dry. The interpolation had been sudden, desperate and honest, and every note of it wavered.

There was a moment in which neither one of them spoke, but Greg knew Nick was still on the line because he could hear the change in his breathing. Finally, Nick chose to elaborate, obviously trying very hard to keep calm. "I need... Ever since what happened to Warrick, I've been so... fucking... scared, Greg. And you make me... I don't know, but I can't just stand here and watch you struggle with some invisible demon that I so badly want to see."

Greg pursed his lips, sympathy for his friend finally reaching out a warm finger and sending a static shock to his weary heart. "But you don't have to do that..."

"No, Greg, I really do," Nick insisted. "You don't understand, when Warrick..." Nick held his breath. "He had... these pills. And I knew that something was wrong. But I figured that he was smart enough to deal with it on his own. I asked him about it once. It got... awkward, so we both tried to laugh it off. And I figured he got the message. And I knew the drugs were linked to his odd behavior, his obsession with Gedda, and I... Oh God..." He sniffed. "I can't. I just... I can't talk about this."

Greg was holding his breath, his heart leaping into his throat. "I am... really, _really_ sorry, Nick. About Warrick, about... everything. Really, I am. But you don't have to worry. I have a plan. I'll be OK, I promise. I know what I'm doing." _There were those words again._

And the tragedy was, that even though he had said that before, and even though each time, he had been wrong, Nick still trusted him when he said it. "OK, man... OK. If that's what you want... OK. But I'm telling you now. If it _doesn't_ get better, if you keep on like you are... I _will_ find out what's going on with you. The marijuana, the bitterness, the forgetting, the strange _women_..."

"Woman," Greg corrected quietly. "Just one woman."

"Camellia..." Nick whispered.

Greg sighed. "OK, I get it, I do. And... thanks. For trying. But I won't need your help."

"I really hope that's true, Greg," Nick breathed. "I really do."

"Now, I gotta go..." said Greg slowly. "And you have to let me."

There was another strange pause, and then, "OK, Greg. Goodbye."

As Greg hung up, he noticed he was shaking visibly and swore under his breath. He couldn't afford to take any more pills. He didn't even know how many he had taken the night before, or how long they had kept him under... But he was already experiencing withdrawal symptoms, and it wasn't even eighteen hours later. He looked at Liver, as if his cat would have all the answers.

But he knew someone who did.

Shaking terribly, he seized his phone and dialed a number.

"Yo."

"Cam? It's me. R-Rabbit. I need your help something bad."

Even though he couldn't see her, he knew she was smiling.


	12. Drug Of Choice

_**Author's Note:**_ Reporting from Albuquerque. Here's your update. Betaed by LaughableBlackStorm.

* * *

The door opened and he stepped out of the dawn light and into her home. She smiled warmly to greet him, but it was different from her normally wicked smile. She put a hand gently on his back and guided him into the living room, where Greg counted four others. Lyle was not among them.

"Where are Lyle and Gemini?" he asked as Camellia led him to his usual arm chair, before quickly exiting. He gestured at someone he didn't recognize. "And who's this guy?"

"Hey, Conejo, we welcomed _you_ with open arms," Frank said. "Be nice to Roger."

Greg cocked an eyebrow as Roger kneeled at the table, dividing a white powder into several lines. He looked up and smiled, his face red, his eyes bloodshot. He had a blue tie which hung undone around his white collar and his brown curls were disheveled. "Hello, how are you?"

His words were formal and business-like, even as he handled the cocaine.

"I'm fine..." Greg said slowly.

"Liar," said Camellia as she reentered the room. "You need your medicine."

Greg took the mug and looked down in it. "This is weaker?" he checked. "Like I asked?"

"Half as strong as it was before, sugar," Camellia assured him. "And therefore only half as effective."

"Good," said Greg, lifting the cup to his mouth and taking a small sip. She was right, it was weaker than before. He sighed as the warm liquid slashed down his throat. He frowned. "You guys didn't answer my question. What happened to Lyle and Gemini?"

"They'll be back eventually," Camellia assured him, sitting next to Misty, who put her hand on Camellia's knee.

"But what _happened_ to them?" Greg pressed, even as Roger snorted a line of cocaine and he focused on the strange man. "What do you do, anyway?"

Roger looked up, his eyes wide, his pupils pin pricks, and sniffed. "CPA," he said quickly, shaking out his head.

"That explains it," Greg muttered. He took another sip of his tea.

"So how is it?" Camellia asked, pushing a strand of hair behind Misty's ear.

"I'll let you know," Greg replied. "You ever gonna tell me what's in it?"

She smirked enigmatically and shook her head. "I told you, cariño. It's a secret."

"Is that your drug of choice for the evening?" Toxic asked with a suggestive raise of the eyebrow that Greg couldn't quite comprehend.

"Mm..." he said as the familiar tingles began to loosen his muscles and knead his mind into dough ready for baking.

Toxic's smile widened. "So the last trip was too much for you, huh?"

"A bit," Greg replied.

"You didn't like it?" Toxic pressed.

Greg didn't understand why he was so interested. "I liked parts of it. Parts of it were fun. Others, not so much." As his mind grew hazy, something occurred to him, and he turned his head to Camellia, who seemed far more interested in Misty at that moment. "We had sex, didn't we?"

She laughed. "They always only remember when they're wasted again."

"Was it good?" Toxic inquired, casting a knowing glance at Cam.

"With me, baby, you know it always is," she replied, staring right back at Toxic as Misty kissed her ear.

Flowers were beginning to sprout from the green carpet and vines decorated her white ceiling. Greg imagined he was in a jungle, surrounded by exotic animals during the mating season. Greg was still in control of himself, or at least he _felt_ in control... he was simply hallucinating. It reminded him vaguely of the Valium, which seemed capable of relaxing him and his muscles and even causing hallucinations, and yet he generally remained completely lucid, unless another drug was involved.

Another drug... _What the hell is in this tea?_

Someone passed him a joint. He didn't know who. It was probably the panda. Regardless, he took it and inhaled without thinking. Months ago, the reflexive action for him was to _pass_ without thinking. But times were changing, and so was Greg. The tea, like Valium, made him vulnerable to suggestion. If someone told him to go skydiving, he would do it without fear.

"Feeling bold?" something whispered in his ear, and he nodded vaguely because he didn't know where it was coming from. He looked left at a panther with spiked fur and curious eyes, before reaching out and petting that stiff black fur with tips of white.

"You remind me of my Liver."

"You're kinky, man," the panther purred, nuzzling Greg's neck and making him laugh.

"Quit it..." Greg said half-heartedly.

The panther's paw was on his chest and he reclined in the chair. "Maul me," he dared the beast.

"I intend to," the panther replied, and Greg felt as if he were in some perverse Disney movie.

He remembered stumbling to his feet and waving at the other zoo animals before he was pulled out above the canopy and the sky looked like the ocean and the ground looked like the sky and Greg wanted to jump to dive in, or dive to fall up. Either way, he was guided to a chariot, reclined in his throne, and then the rest were just fragments of flickering fickle fantasies.

* * *

His eyes were on fire. Or... no wait, perhaps not. He blinked. No, it seemed they were only closed, and the sunset filtering in through the window had caused a red glow behind them. He blinked a few more times, proud of himself because he was actually waking up before his shift started. And then, he took in his surroundings and his pride quickly diminished.

He had no idea whose bed he was sleeping in.

Groaning, he reached down and pulled the blue duvet up over his head. After a minute of hiding in the darkness, he ventured a look over the edge of the comforter, glancing left, then right, taking in his surroundings. He was relieved to see that the bed was vacant beside him, although he knew he hadn't slept alone. In fact, he had probably done very little sleeping. Flashes of the night passed before his vision, interwoven with hallucinations.

He put a hand to his forehead, still hiding under the covers. This wasn't the first time he'd woken up in a stranger's bed, although admittedly it hadn't occurred in a while. He spread out the puzzle pieces of his memories and tried to connect them, fitting them together as accurately as he could. He had flashes of wild animals and jungles and laughing and—_drinks_! Fantastic, so he'd mixed the tea with marijuana _and_ alcohol.

He knew he'd have to come out from under the covers eventually.

With a sigh, he threw the duvet off of him and froze when he saw a figure leaning against the doorframe. He was probably about Greg's height and wore a t-shirt with AC/DC scrawled across it, along with a pair of red boxers. He had a cup of coffee in his hands and was watching Greg with curiosity.

"How'd you sleep?"

Greg sighed. "I have a headache."

"Cam's tea'll do that to you. Some coffee should clear it up for you." He nodded down the hallway. "There's more in the kitchen."

"No thanks..." Greg said slowly. "I'm very particular about my coffee." He pursed his lips. "What's... your name?"

"You don't remember my name?" He feigned offense. "Ouch."

"No," Greg said. "I mean, I know your _name_ as far as what they call you at Cam's, but I don't know your real name. Like... you know I'm Greg."

He moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," said Greg. "I like to know the names of the people I sleep with."

"People call me Toxic."

"Yeah, I know, but your _mother_ doesn't call you that, does she?"

"My mother's dead."

Greg was quiet. He swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be. She was a heroin junkie. She deserved what she got." Though Toxic seemed perfectly fine, Greg was unnerved.

"Then... your dad?"

"Arrested for rape," Toxic explained. "Of my mother and twelve other women."

Greg flinched. "What a happy family you have."

"You know, I don't even know his name." He shrugged. "You sure you don't want any coffee?"

"That's tough, growing up like that."

"Aw, it wasn't so bad," Toxic said. "Had an uncle. Disowned my mother as his sister, but he tossed me a coin every now and then. Helped me go to college."

"What'd you major in?"

"Photography."

Greg nodded. "What kind of career does a major like that lead to?"

"I'm a tattoo artist," Toxic replied with a proud smile. "I do pretty good for myself, actually."

"Yeah, I can tell," said Greg, looking around the apartment. "You do more than just tattoos, don't you?"

"I hook folks up with Cam," Toxic explained. "And yeah, I get a small stipend."

"Stipend..." Greg echoed, his lips twitching. "See, that's how I know you went to college. You use words like 'stipend.'"

Toxic nodded. "I'm not just some slacker kid who gets high because his mom did. I know things. I stay away from really heavy stuff like smack. Never do coke, not like Lyle did... does..." He seemed confused with his tenses. "Or that CPA. Damn, was he going off. And he has a higher salary than _I_ do."

Greg chuckled lightly. "I thought I knew what I was doing when I started the Valium."

"And now you're addicted," Toxic noted. "Do you care?"

Greg genuinely thought about it for a moment. "Not when I'm high."

He smiled. "Then that's all that matters."

Greg nodded slowly, relishing the clear-headedness and lack of Valium withdrawal symptoms, but not overly fond of the headache. "So..." he began, gesturing at the both of them. "What exactly does this mean?"

"Whatever you want it to mean," Toxic said casually, sipping his coffee. "It could be nothing, or it could be everything."

"What are you leaning towards?" Greg inquired.

"Personally, I really could go either way. I don't get attached, so I'm really apathetic about the whole thing."

That answer helped Greg make up his mind. "Let's not... talk about it then." He liked people to care when he slept with them. He shifted awkwardly, the usual shame washing over him like it always did when he accidentally went to bed with someone he didn't know and he ducked his head, searching for his clothes.

"Oh, right, you have to go to work," said Toxic, standing up. "You can take a shower if you like. I'm going to go roll a joint. You want one?"

"Is that all you do?" Greg asked. "Roll joints? Every time I see you, you're rolling a joint."

"Weed would be my DOC," Toxic said with a smile. "When it comes to dealing _and_ indulging."

"DOC?" Greg echoed with a cocked eyebrow.

"Drug of choice, bro," Toxic explained. "Like yours is Valium."

"Ah..." Greg intoned dismally. He pulled the duvet more tightly around himself, because for some strange reason he felt lonelier than ever all of a sudden.

_Waking up in a relative stranger's room who doesn't even care _can_ make you feel a bit down on yourself,_ he reasoned bitterly. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up and chase away the headache. When his vision was clear again, he noticed that Toxic was gone.

Greg took him up on the offer of a shower, mostly because he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken one. He was doing too many drugs in a short time frame, and he didn't even know what one of them was. He felt the water pelt his face as he stared up into the spout, his hands gliding over them as he sighed in frustration. He turned to look at the products his new lover used and cocked an eyebrow at how many he had. Toxic hadn't looked particularly high-maintenance, then again with hair like that... Greg knew what it took to maintain hair like that. He wondered vaguely what had made him stop. There was a reason, he just couldn't recall it. He was losing more memories.

He seized the shampoo and lathered it in his hands before combing his fingers through his mop of hair. He massaged his scalp and smiled, because it helped alleviate the headache somewhat. The soap drizzled down into his eyes as he bent his head under the spout and the water bombarded him like bullets. His hair lay flat and lifeless, but clean against his forehead as the soapy water swirled around the drain.

In a way, there were qualities of Toxic that reminded Greg of himself a few years ago. They had similar styles, and tastes in music, if the AC/DC shirt was anything to go by. Not to mention the fact that Toxic seemed to be sporting a hairstyle Greg had outgrown.

_Outgrown..._

And then, Greg remembered why his fashion sense had changed.

_"You look like a teenager..."_

_"... Are you really going to wear your hair like that in court?"_

_"Seriously, Sanders, do you really expect them to take you seriously?"_

They were the words of Grissom, Catherine, and Hodges respectively when Greg was in the limbo between lab rat and CSI. So he traded in his AC/DC tee and Hawaiian shirt for darker, more somber colors and styles. He stopped putting so much gel in his hair, but refused to cut it. It was a reminder that he still _could_ spike it, if he ever really wanted to. The funny thing was, they never really commented on the change. They just _stopped_ commenting about how odd and quirky he looked. How odd and quirky he acted. How odd and quirky he... _was_. They stopped mentioning it altogether. They stopped waiting for the corny joke, because he stopped feeding them the punch line. They just treated him like any other colleague. An equal.

And Greg, in a stranger's shower, couldn't decide if that was better or worse.

He rapidly moved his hands around in his hair and finished up in the shower, dressing himself in the clothes he had been wearing the night before... clothes he had in fact been wearing for two days straight previously. He made a mental note to change when he got home.

Greg shuffled into the entry hall and heard Toxic scrounging around in the kitchen. He yawned and dug in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and opening it up to find...

"What the fuck?! Where'd all my money go?!"

"Spent it on the tea," came Toxic's voice.

That would explain what the bags of suspicious green materials were and... Those were mushrooms. Greg was sure of it.

"I spent a hundred bucks on _shrooms_?!" he exclaimed.

"More than shrooms, bro!" said Toxic with a laugh, entering the hall with a cup of coffee in one hand and a joint in the other. "That's Camellia's cure-all tea. Sure, shrooms may be _in_ it, but..."

"I've heard enough. Can you lend me some cash for a cab?"

"No need, we drove here in your car," Toxic told him. "It's parked outside. You'll find it."

"Fabulous..." Greg groaned, closing his wallet and shoving it back in his pocket. "I didn't know it was shrooms..." This worried him. Valium and marijuana, that was one thing, but psilocybin mushrooms was a whole other barrel of fish. And what _else_ was in this miracle tea of his?

The good news was, he had a lab that would figure that out for him.

The bad news was, bringing drugs like this in with a flimsy excuse could get him caught. And what had Nick said about Ecklie and Grissom and keeping his job?

When he looked up, Toxic was gone again, and Greg had a strange sense of abandonment. With a tired sigh, he left the apartment.

* * *

He was closing the door of his locker when he heard someone else enter. Their shadow blocked the incoming light from the hall and caused Greg to look up. He tensed, because he had been expecting this confrontation since their phone call.

"Hello, Nick," Greg greeted.

"Thanks for being on time today," Nick whispered. His eyes were dark, his expression inscrutable, which was odd for Greg because normally the Texan was as easy to read as a book.

"Yeah, uh, well..." He forced a smile. "I remember what you said. About missing too much work. And stuff."

"Right," Nick said, nodding. "I'm glad. I'm glad you remember. I was worried you weren't paying attention." He licked his lips, which Greg knew was a nervous habit of his friend's. "And... no more weed?"

Greg blinked. This was related to Nick's confession about Warrick's drug habits. Greg knew the answer Nick needed to hear, even if it wasn't true. "Yeah. Sure. If it bothers you that much, no more weed."

"And you'll talk to me, then?" Nick probed. "Instead of relying on drugs or whatever?"

_He thinks marijuana is the extent of my drug dabbling_, Greg realized. _He doesn't even suspect the Valium, despite what Molly told him. He trusts me too damn much._

"Sure," he said out loud.

Nick nodded and wrapped his arms around himself. "Good," he muttered. "Now come on, we have a new scene."

"Together again?" Greg inquired.

"You getting sick of me?" Nick returned, trying to sound lighthearted but Greg heard the insecurity in his tone as well.

"Nah," Greg replied. "I just thought, with my attitude lately, _you'd_ be getting sick of _me_."

Nick smiled and headed out the door. "C'mon."

Greg contemplated his quandary as they made their way down the hall, past the various labs, and then they entered the interview hall and began to stride down it, passing a few empty ones, very few with a detective and suspect, and one that caught his eye.

It was the purple hair. He probably would have walked right on by if he hadn't recognized that neon color. And she was speaking to Brass with another person in the room he did not recognize. Her eyes were bloodshot and her arms were folded across her chest as she stared obstinately at Brass.

Greg stopped walking, his eyes glued to her face.

"What's the matter?" Nick asked, a few paces ahead.

Greg shook it off. "What? Oh. Nothing, never mind, it's just Brass, I, uh, haven't seen him in a while."

"You haven't seen a _lot_ of people in a while," Nick pointed out.

Greg began to walk again when he heard shouting from the interrogation room they passed and he couldn't resist a glance. The girl was pointing at him, at _Greg_, and yelling with a smirk on her face. She had to be restrained by two cops who entered from the adjoining room. Greg immediately ducked his head and followed Nick, trying to keep a low profile.

He succeeded.

They went out to another crime scene.

They processed another body.

But Greg said very little, as his mind was elsewhere. _What was Gemini doing in police custody? What had she yelled when she was pointing at him? Was it a drug bust? Could they tie him to it?_

He was on edge all night, and Nick even commented on it, but Greg said it was just the caffeine.

"See, there's _my_ drug of choice," Nick commented offhandedly. "Sure, it's addictive, but at least it keeps you awake on shifts like this."

_Great_, Greg thought. _Toxic has his weed, Nick has his caffeine, and I have my Valium. What a happy little trio we make._

But at least Nick was _smiling_ again. Talking to Greg as if this whole thing had never happened. As if Greg was the same person he was months ago, before he started the Valium. And Greg liked that. He wanted to keep that. Because a happy Nick was the best kind of Nick.

But still, he couldn't even focus on that. His mind kept drifting back to that purple-haired girl.

He decided to casually bring it up to Brass when they returned to the lab.

"That woman?" Brass said when Greg had inquired. The young CSI responded with a nod. "Aw, that's nothing. Name's Alexis Enderly, she's twenty-four. Busted for assault. She knifed a guy a while back."

"Is he OK?!" Greg asked breathlessly, thinking instantly of Lyle.

"Yeah, he survived," Brass replied. "Has a pretty nasty wound though. Both of them are addicts. In fact, she was on PCP when she stabbed him. She thought he was Bigfoot trying to steal her M&Ms or something like that. It makes perfect sense to her." He cocked an eyebrow. "You're worried, because she flipped out when she saw you in the hall?"

Greg felt a chill run down his spine as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. "What? No, I..."

"Don't worry," Brass assured him. "She's detoxing. Courts put her in a program. We were just doing a routine follow-up." He smirked. "She thought you were Jesus."

Greg blinked. "She... what?"

"That's what she was saying. Kept pointing at you, yelling, 'Jesus, it's Jesus!' Very damaged girl, I'm afraid."

Greg nodded, rubbing some goosebumps prickling his arms. "Yeah... very damaged."

Brass turned around and headed down the hall. Greg, still slightly unnerved, was going to go on a quest for Nick when his phone rang and he answered instinctively.

"Sanders."

"Rabbit?" came a shaky voice. It sounded strange and far away. "I-I'm in a real b-bad way..."

He knew who it was. He didn't know the number, but he knew who it was. "Where are you?"

"Lake Mead," he replied. "I-I dunno wha-what to do..."

Greg nodded and looked at his watch. "Can you just... hold on for a few more hours? I really need to finish my shift here."

"No, man, I..." He paused. "I mean, yeah, yeah, I could... I guess I could do that."

Greg sighed as he saw Catherine turn the corner. "What are you going to do if I don't come out there right now?" he asked straightforwardly.

Catherine paused on her passage past him and cast him a curious glance.

"Um... I... I'm not sure. I need cash. I need... drugs, I need weed, do you have any weed?"

Greg chewed on his lip, his eyes locking with Catherine's. "What are you going to do with that?"

"Build a tree house and have a tea party, what the fuck do you _think_ I'm gonna do with it—"

"OK, OK!" Greg interjected. "Just... calm down. I'll be there as soon as I can. Where are you again?"

"Highway 93," he replied. "Leadin' up to Lake Mead."

"Right," Greg said. "I'm on my way." He hung up and gave Catherine an apologetic look. "What can I do, Cath? A friend's in trouble."

She looked stern, one hand resting on her hip, her eyes wide in disbelief. She frowned and took a step forward. "Is this what's been going on with you lately?" she whispered. "Is your friend going through something right now? Is that what's been distracting you?"

Nick thought it was just marijuana, because he trusted Greg too much to think it could be anything worse. Catherine thought it was concern, because she always put Lindsey's needs before her own. Greg made note of this difference in assumptions.

"Yeah," he lied. "Yeah, that's it."

"OK then..." Catherine said slowly. "Because if you think we haven't noticed, we have. Grissom wanted to talk to you, but then Nick told him that he was handling it. Is he? Handling it?"

Greg opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat, so he settled for a nod. "Listen, Cath, I really have to go," he said. "My friend, he needs me."

She seemed heavily conflicted. "Greg, what am I going to tell Grissom? You've used up all your sick days and I—"

"Tell him anything," said Greg. "Tell him I was abducted by aliens, OK, but just... cover me. Can you do that please, for me, Catherine?"

She nodded, but she was not appeased. "OK... Be safe."

"I always am," Greg replied, and he was gone.


	13. Good At What You Do

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm flying from LA to Seattle tomorrow, then moving into my new apartment. After that, things should settle down again and regular updates will return. Apologies for the gaps between these last two chapters. There will be one last gap of a two or three days between this and the next one too.

* * *

Catherine was going over a few points about their crime scene with the new CSI, Riley Adams, when Nick knocked on the door, making both women look up.

"What's up, Nicky?"

"Nothin' much," he replied. "Um, I was just wondering if you'd seen Greg about anywhere..."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Greg? Um... he should be around her somewhere, right?"

"Yeah, he _should_ be," Nick muttered. "But that boy's more slippery than a greased-up pig. He just disappears on me now, like he's avoiding me." His eyes widened. "Oh God, Cath, please tell me Greg isn't avoiding me."

"I don't think he's avoiding you," Riley put in. "I haven't seen him all night. Did he even come in today?"

"He came in today," Nick assured her. "We were on a scene together."

"Well, I hope you find him," Catherine said.

Nick narrowed his eyes at her. "Have _you_ seen him at all tonight?"

She seemed startled. "Um... yeah, actually, I ran into him in the hall. He was on the phone, though, I didn't catch what he was saying."

Nick sighed. "Where the hell is he?" he muttered, exasperated. "I've called him seven times already. If he ditched, I swear to God—"

"He didn't ditch!" Catherine insisted abruptly. "He's around, Nick, I'm sure of it. Why don't you just focus on your case and leave him a message, I'm sure he'll call you back. Maybe he's out on a dinner break or something."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, maybe you're right. See you both, ladies," he said, and then turned around and left.

Catherine turned back to Riley. "Now, look, do you see the imprint on her left—"

They were interrupted again by a whoosh and then a slamming door as Nick leaned against it, his eyes wide. Both women looked up, rather startled.

"What's wrong with you?" Riley asked bluntly.

"Ecklie's out there," Nick hissed. "He's going to ask me where Greg is. If I say that I don't know, Greg's screwed."

"Are you serious?" Catherine blinked. "Exactly how many days has he missed?"

"A bunch," Nick replied. "Like, miss-one-more-and-you're-fired. That's how many."

Catherine chewed on her lip. "Do you know why?" she asked, slowly.

Nick frowned. "Do _you_?"

"I'll go ask Wendy about that DNA..." Riley said slowly, and slipped out of the room, leaving Nick and Catherine alone.

"OK, look," said Catherine, simply. "It's clear that there's something bothering him and so I say give him some time to deal with that issue, and when it's over things will be fine."

"Issue, what issue?" Nick asked. "Greg is just... Wait, what are you talking about?"

"I'm sure that wherever Greg is, he's needed there," Catherine explained, turning away from Nick guiltily.

"What?!" Nick exclaimed. "You know where he is, don't you?"

"No, I do not," Catherine replied, but her tone betrayed her.

"Where is he, Catherine?" Nick half growled.

"Abducted by aliens?" Catherine suggested awkwardly. She sighed. "OK, he went to help a friend. He asked me to cover for him, but Nicky, it sounded like this guy was in serious trouble."

"_Greg_ is in serious trouble!" Nick returned. "Do you know he—" He cut himself off abruptly and settled instead for a growl as he fell into a nearby chair and sighed, his eyes gravitating to the floor. "I'm really scared, Cath. I don't know what's going on with him lately. He's... doing things that I never thought he'd be doing. And the worst part is, he won't tell me why."

Catherine sighed and sat in a chair next to Nick. "Well... The best you can do is give him some time to—"

"That's just _it_, I've _given_ him time," Nick replied. "He even said he was going to fix it, and I... I don't know if he will."

"Some people don't like talking about personal things," Catherine cooed with a smile. "Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve like you do. I'm sure he's handling it."

But Nick could hear the uncertainty in her tone. "You just _hope_ he is. Like I do."

"He won't lose his job," Catherine assured Nick. "He's smarter than that."

"Yeah, he's smart, but he's also stupid," Nick remarked. "Have you met that girl he's seeing now? The prostitute?"

Catherine blinked. "Greg is dating a _prostitute_?"

"I'm surprised Hodges didn't tell you," Nick mumbled. "He told all the lab techs already." He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. "I can't _believe_ he has you covering for him now! Do you now how many times _I've_ had to cover for him? This is ridiculous! He can't do this, he _shouldn't_ do this... And if Ecklie finds out, Catherine..."

"Hush," Catherine whispered. "He'll come back."

"That's just it, Catherine," Nick uttered, looking up at her with frightened brown eyes. "He won't."

* * *

The drive out to Lake Mead took about forty minutes, and Greg knew he was pushing it. He was nervous about what exactly was going on with Lyle, and the guilt over worrying Catherine was gestating in his stomach, making him nauseous. On top of everything, his withdrawal symptoms were knocking on the door to his brain and his headache was ready to let them in for a house party in his skull.

Finally, Greg saw a jeep pulled up by the shore. It was the only car around and he _knew_ who it had to belong to. He got out of his car and made his way towards it slowly. He approached the driver's side and his heart lurched when he saw a face squished against the glass, the eyes closed. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle when the eyes suddenly opened and Greg screamed, leaping backwards.

A second later, the door was open and Lyle was glaring at him. His eyes were black and sunken and his chalk-white skin was stretched taut over his bones. He looked like a decaying corpse. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he was drenched in sweat. "Where the hell have you been?!" he demanded.

"It's a forty minute drive out here from the crime lab!" Greg exclaimed. "What do you expect?"

"Do you have it?" Lyle asked.

"Do I have what?"

"Get in the fucking car," Lyle growled, and slammed his door shut.

Greg was shaking. He had never seen the bartender like this. Lyle had always been amicable and strong. But he looked as if he'd lost weight, mostly muscle mass, as his biceps weren't nearly as impressive as they once had been. But Greg climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.

"Did you bring it?" Lyle repeated.

"What do you want?" Greg replied evenly.

"The _drugs_, asshole!" Lyle snapped. "Give me the _drugs_!"

"You know I don't have cocaine, Lyle," Greg said. "You know I don't do that shit."

"And so what, that makes you better than me?!" Lyle growled like a tiger. "You are such a fucking hypocrite. Drugs are drugs, whether you're getting smashed on alcohol, smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, getting high on pot or shooting up heroin! It's all the _same_, don't you get it?"

"No, it isn't all the same," said Greg, shaking his head. "There are hard drugs, like cocaine, and there are soft drugs, like weed, and if—"

"Hard drugs, soft drugs, that doesn't mean _shit_!" Lyle spat. "It's all just a matter of preference. You're neurotic so you like your Valium, and I need energy so I like my coke. So give me my fucking coke, you hypocrite!"

But Greg stood his ground. "I told you, Lyle," he said calmly. "I don't _have_ any cocaine."

"Fuck!" Lyle spat. "Then give me weed! I _told_ you to bring drugs, man, you can't leave here without giving me _something_!"

"Well..." said Greg slowly, reaching into his wallet. "I have that tea that Cam makes..."

"Shit, do I _look_ like a fucking kettle?!" Lyle yelled. "I don't have the means to make _tea_!"

"Maybe you could smoke it," Greg suggested. "Or just eat it, you know? I'm positive there are some shrooms in there, so..."

"Fuck it," Lyle muttered, looking out the window and shaking his head. "You really let me down, Rabbit."

Greg chewed on his lip, before he dared to ask, "What _happened_ to you, man? One minute, you're happy as anything, making out with Cam and—"

"Don't you even _mention_ that bitch's name in my presence, do you hear me?!" Lyle shouted.

And it was then that the true strangeness of the situation occurred to Greg. If Lyle had needed drugs, he should have known that Greg was not the person to call. He _should_ have called Camellia. She was his dealer, after all.

"What happened between you and Camellia?" Greg said slowly.

Lyle rolled his eyes. "It's fucked up, Rabbit. Everything is so _fucked up _now, and it's _her_ fucking fault."

"Were you the one Gemini stabbed?" Greg dared to ask.

Lyle looked up. "Gemini? Aw, that fucking purple-headed pixie cunt! She gets all riled up because I told her she looked like she was calling the aliens to take her back home and takes out this knife I didn't even know she had! Jesus... So Cam drives us to the hospital... Did Cam tell you who she ran into there?"

Greg blinked. "No... No, I had no idea this even happened!"

"Her doctor," Lyle growled with a snort. "For some stupid reason, the bitch has been dodging him and when he told me _why_... She's fucking killing me, Rabbit. And she fucking _knew_ it! That's murder, that's just outright _murder_!"

"What did she _do_, Lyle?!" Greg demanded.

"She's tainted," Lyle explained. "Contaminated. Damaged goods. And I fucked that disease-ridden sewer of hers."

Goosebumps rose on Greg's skin and he felt a thin film of sweat coat his pores. "What? What disease does she... What does she have?"

Lyle looked at Greg if he was stupid. He pulled down the collar of his shirt and pointed at a discoloration at the top of his chest. "Do you know what this is, Rabbit?"

Greg hoped the answer was skin cancer. "No..."

"It's the kiss of death," said Lyle. "Lesion numero uno, and plenty more to follow. And guess who's to blame!"

Darkness began to encroach on Greg's vision as a strange pounding in his head grew louder and louder and colored spots appeared before his eyes. The world was tilting and he felt incredibly lightheaded as he leaned back in his seat, bringing his hands up to his face. "Jesus fucking Christ..." he swore, his voice trembling as badly as the rest of his body.

"You're telling me," Lyle muttered, pulling the last cigarette out of a box and sticking it between his lips. He fumbled with his lighter and cupped his hand over the end of the shaking cigarette, which eventually caught fire and he inhaled deeply.

"Holy shit, she never even..." _She never told me_, Greg finished in his mind. In his fury, he clenched his hand into a fist and rammed it into the dashboard. "I'm _fucked_!" Pain radiated through his knuckles and the tiny incisions left behind by his nails in his palm. He was shivering now, and he knew he was in a hole he couldn't dig his way out of.

Lyle frowned at him. "What are _you_ so worried about?"

"I fucked her too!" Greg exclaimed. "You were there, weren't you? Don't you even remember?"

Lyle shrugged. "A lot of things are fuzzy these days... You wear a rubber?"

"I-I-I can't remember..." Greg began to panic. "Jesus _Christ_, I can't _remember_!"

"I've fucked her a dozen times, and I trusted her... Says she's on the pill, so we didn't always use rubbers," Lyle muttered. "Fucking cunt."

Suddenly, Greg couldn't breathe. "Oh God, I need my pills..." he groaned. "Oh God, I _badly_ need my _pills_!"

But he groped around for it in his jeans and found nothing. A part of him remembered leaving them at home before he had headed over to Cam's in search of his cure.

"Hot water..." Greg muttered. "We need some fucking tea, dammit!"

"I told you, you don't _have_ hot water!" Lyle returned.

Greg didn't care. He ripped a packet out of his wallet and poured the dried herbs out onto his hand when Lyle seized his wrist. "No you don't, motherfucker. If I have to stay clean, then so do you!"

Greg jolted his wrist out of Lyle's grip, and the packet and its contents flew everywhere. "Don't fucking try to tell me what to do, you goddamn coke head!" he snapped. With horror, Greg recoiled, taking a step outside of himself as his words echoed in his head. He raked his hands through his hair. "Jesus, what's happened to me?" He looked at the drugs, scattered on the floor of Lyle's car, then looked up at the old bartender, who was no longer paying any attention to him. He was gripping the wheel, his hands disturbingly skeletal and his breathing was ragged.

"Got stabbed..." Lyle began, one of his hands reaching to rub his left side unconsciously. "Doctors tried to put me in fuckin' rehab... My boss found out and I lost my job... My dealer gave me AIDS, so that means I lost my connection... Fuck, man, I'm _fucked_!"

Greg watched him in revulsion, even as his own withdrawal symptoms really began to kick in again. When he had known Lyle years ago, the bartender had been warm, friendly, and brawny, but much like a giant teddy bear. He had laughed, made good money, and had fun in his job. Now, he was trembling, deathly white, and much scrawnier than before, sniffing every so often, a constant reminder of the price he'd paid.

But the most frightening thing about Lyle, Greg realized, was that Greg was slowly becoming that sickly sallow skeleton himself.

"I can't do this anymore..." Greg whispered. "I can't... I need to go." He opened the door to Lyle's car and stumbled out into the dust of the shore. He abandoned his old dead friend in that car and moved for his own, trying to hold onto his thoughts, which were rising like balloons, carrying him somewhere he didn't want to be. He clambered into his car and gripped the wheel, staring out the windshield for a long time.

Beside him on the passenger's seat, his phone began to ring. Glancing down, he saw that it was Nick. _Well,_ Greg thought. _I'll be back soon enough._

He pulled out, his head pounding, and focused as much as he could on the road. It took a lot of effort not to swerve to one side and crash. Often, he wanted to do it intentionally.

* * *

He walked back into the lab in a daze, barely blinking. Judy tried to catch his attention, but he passed her like a ghost and made his way deliberately down the halls of the lab, his jaw slack. He passed Grissom, who was speaking to Hodges, and his supervisor looked up and then approached him, matching Greg's pace, who didn't slow down.

"Greg," Grissom said, coldly. "Where have you been? Ecklie has been looking all over for you and you've left poor Nick and Catherine to make up excuses. He's not buying their stories anymore."

"I'm... sorry..." Greg said, vaguely feeling the emotion, although the majority of his body was numb by now. Even his headache seemed less intense.

"Sorry? Is that all you have to offer us, Greg?" Grissom demanded. He lowered his voice. "Did you see Dr. Laramie?"

"Who?" Greg muttered.

"The psychiatrist. Did you see her?"

"No," Greg admitted, and then they reached the DNA lab. He turned to Grissom. "Excuse me, Griss, but there's something I have to do, could you just... hang on a second?"

His supervisor stared at him blankly. "Hold _on_ a second?" he echoed.

Greg thanked him and moved into the lab, where Wendy was poised over some papers, one hand on the microscope.

"Wendy."

She was startled, possibly by his presence, or the way he said her name. It was flat and yet sharp at the same time, like a jagged skipping stone. She wasn't used to hearing this tone in Greg's voice; indeed, neither were any of them.

"Yes...?" she said slowly in response to his call.

He opened his mouth to respond but closed it briefly, making his way instead to a nearby drawer and pulling out a latex glove, which he began to tie around his upper left arm. "I need to borrow your lab for a second, if that's OK."

Her brow furrowed as she stared at his arm. "Um..." At this point, Grissom had entered the lab. Greg was pulling at one end of the latex glove with his teeth to make sure it was tight enough. When that was done he flicked at the blue vein just above the crook of his elbow.

"Uh huh," he said, satisfied, and then turned to another drawer in which he scrambled for something else.

"Greg?" Grissom said tentatively. "What's going on? What are you doing?"

"Little experiment," Greg replied. "Aha!" He had found what he was looking for. He turned around, holding a packaged syringe. He unwrapped it and eyed it warily.

"Greg, that's not—" Wendy began.

"Greg!" Grissom chastised as the young CSI swabbed at a spot on his arm with antiseptic.

He smiled eerily, and he noted that it chilled his colleagues. "Come any closer and somebody may lose an eye," he warned. He said it with a smile, possibly an attempt at a morbid joke. His colleagues couldn't be sure.

Greg pulled the case off of the needle with his teeth before putting the metal to his skin.

Wendy gasped, but it didn't stop him from drawing his own bloody. Greg saw Grissom glance at Wendy.

"Wait here with him," he told the lab tech. "I'll be right back."

Wendy looked absolutely terrified of being left alone in the lab with Greg, but the younger man was ignoring them. He had finished drawing the blood and was currently occupied with slipping it into a slot in the wheel, and turning on the mixing machine.

"Curious to, uh, see what your DNA looks like?" Wendy asked tentatively.

To her surprise, he laughed. "I was a tech like you once, Wendy," he said. "You should know that I've already pulled and matched my own DNA on my breaks. I'm sure you've done the same."

He turned around and opened a cabinet door by Wendy's feet. Frowning, he sat up. "Where do you keep your disease kits?" he asked.

Her eyes widened. "What? Greg! You don't think—"

"Where _are_ they, Wendy?"

Maybe it was because he was so pale, or maybe he was just more intimidating than he thought, because the normally confident woman pointed behind him at another cabinet beneath the spinner.

He smiled gratefully at her and nodded. "Thanks," he said, before swiftly moving to where he pointed. She saw him pull out a kit, but not which one.

"What do you think you have?" she dared to ask.

He stopped a moment, then turned off the machine, lifting his sample out of the holder. "I don't know yet," he said.

"You know, you should go to a doctor for this," Wendy advised. "When Ecklie hears that you used lab equipment for personal—"

"Wendy, no offense, but I'm really trying to concentrate here," Greg snapped as he lifted a strip carefully and popped the lid off the vial of his blood. Holding his breath, he slowly and carefully slid the strip into the vial of blood.

_Come on, come on..._

"Sanders!"

That wasn't Wendy's voice. Nor was it Grissom's. But Greg couldn't heed it, not now, not when he was so on edge...

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" the voice snapped, and someone seized his shoulder, whipping him around. Greg, surprised by the touch, released his grip on the vial and it tumbled to the floor, spilling the blood everywhere.

"Jesus Christ, do you have any idea what you've just _done_?!" Greg found himself shouting at Conrad Ecklie, his boss's boss.

Ecklie looked flabbergasted. "Do _you_?!"

Greg was breathing heavily, glancing from Ecklie to Wendy, who was standing nervously a few paces behind him. And next to Wendy stood Grissom.

_Traitor,_ Greg thought bitterly.

"Sanders!" Ecklie was yelling again. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Greg swallowed and tried to find the numbness again. But it was hard with his headache pounding in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat, and his lungs were rasping for air, and the slimy sweat was trickling between the crevices of his fingers and soaking through his shirt.

"Wha... me? N-nothing, just a... an experiment."

Ecklie frowned, and his eyes slowly moved away from Greg's face to the kit that lay open on the counter. He approached it and examined it. Greg's heart leapt into his throat. He expected Ecklie to yell at him some more about using the lab for personal matters, like Wendy had warned. He expected to be suspended, or even fired, for his erratic behavior over the past few months.

But to his utter surprise, Ecklie seemed disturbingly calm. He took the kit and folded it up again, placing it neatly in the cabinet Greg had retrieved it from. He turned to face Grissom.

"Gil, let's talk in your office," he said quietly. He turned to Greg. "You're coming too, Sanders."

And with that, he strode out of the DNA lab, with both Grissom and Greg watching after him. Grissom turned and cast Greg an inquisitive look before following Ecklie out into the hall, leaving Greg alone with Wendy, who gulped visibly.

Greg sighed. "I'm sorry if I... I dunno, made you uncomfortable..." Greg said. He smiled and gave a weak laugh. "You know, you've rearranged a lot. It wasn't as easy to find my way around here as I thought it would be. I had this impression that everything would be where I left it, but... it's not. You've rearranged stuff your way. And that's fine!" he added hastily, as Wendy opened her mouth to defend herself. "Just a... reality check for me, is all. I shouldn't expect things to be the same, even in here. Things... change. People come and go in this place, and objects move around..." He reinforced his tired smile. "You're... really good at what you do."

She smiled back at him at the compliment, though she couldn't understand the weight it carried for Greg.

So he explained. "Someone told me that once, when I was in here, and I think... I don't know, I think that everyone should hear it now and then, just to... just to be reminded of why they still do it, you know? I mean, those who are good at it should hear it. People who suck should also be told that they suck. Which reminds me, I need to see Hodges about—"

"Sanders!" Ecklie's sharp voice barked, startling Greg out of his almost-pleasant monologue. "I told you to get the hell into my office!"

"Right," Greg said with a curt nod. "You're office. I'll be right there." He turned back to Wendy. "See you," he said, and gave her a meek wave before he was gone.


	14. The End of Rabbit

_**Author's Note:**_ OK so the next chapter is a very long one. It will be up as soon as possible. Right now, you're pretty much caught up with my beta. ;o) Writing and moving do not mix, let me tell you. Enjoy.

* * *

Greg sat uncomfortably in the chair before Grissom's desk as his supervisor eyed him warily. Ecklie stood behind the desk with his arms folded, scrutinizing the young CSI, as if he could telepathically gain answers from Greg without making a sound.

"What's this about, Greg?" Grissom finally asked, quietly. "What is going on with you?"

"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" Ecklie asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

Greg looked from one stern expression to the next, trying to decide which one was worse. He said nothing in response to Ecklie's question, and kept his eyes locked with Grissom.

After a moment, Ecklie spoke again. "When were you exposed to HIV?"

Grissom's expression immediately changed to one of bafflement, a rare sight on his often inscrutable features. He turned in silence to stare at Ecklie behind him, and then turned to deliver the same gaze to Greg.

The accused simply sat there before he managed a half-shrug. "I never said I was exposed to—"

"You were running an antibody count on your own blood," Ecklie interrupted curtly. "What exactly did you expect to find?"

Greg decided that now was the best time to take advantage of the Fifth Amendment. He folded his arms, resolutely.

And then, Grissom spoke, in soft, almost pleading tones. "Greg... If you were conducting an experiment, it is in your best interest to tell us what that experiment was."

Greg bit his lip to hide the quiver. It was hot in the office. The air was stifling. "Two weeks ago."

"I'm sorry?" said Grissom.

But Greg was looking up at Ecklie. "It was two weeks ago."

Ecklie looked somber. "Greg..." And the young CSI made note of the use of his first name. "You know that your test would have been inconclusive."

"No," Greg said, stubbornly. "No, it's two to six weeks—"

"But at two weeks, the results are generally waived by any competent doctor," said Ecklie. "It's advised that you wait at least four weeks before performing the test. In order to... give your antibodies ample time to respond to the virus."

Greg said nothing, his mouth remaining resolutely closed again.

Grissom tried to reach out to him. "When did this happen, Greg? How?"

Again, Greg managed another half-shrug.

Ecklie sighed. "It didn't happen on the job, did it?" he asked. "I mean, it wasn't a victim whose blood you were exposed to, or... Oh, no wait, how _could_ it have happened on the job? You have missed over twenty-four days of work in the last three months. You only get twenty-six a year, and you used seven last Christmas."

"Conrad..." Grissom muttered, weakly. "Not now."

"I think now is the best time, Gil," Ecklie returned. He turned his attention back to Greg. "He needs to understand what's happening."

"Conrad, you can't be serious—"

"Of course I'm serious!" Ecklie said simply. "Deadly serious."

Grissom cringed at the word choice, but Greg had gone numb again. They all knew what was coming, anyway.

"Greg Sanders," Ecklie began. "Your performance has dropped significantly, your attendance is unacceptably spotty, you used the lab for personal purposes, and you failed to alert your supervisor about a possible infectious disease. It is for these reasons that you are hereby dismissed from your position at this lab until further notice.'

Greg looked up. "Until further notice...?"

Ecklie's face was stern. "You are free to contest this decision via your union rep. We will be searching for your replacement. If, however, you can demonstrate that you have gotten your life back together and can focus on your job _before_ we can find a suitable replacement, your application will be reconsidered, along with all the other applicants. Are we clear?"

It was, quite possibly, the most lenient ruling Greg had ever heard Conrad Ecklie make. Even Grissom looked surprised.

"Now," said Ecklie, with the continued air of a businessman. "Your badge."

Greg held his breath but nodded. He couldn't believe his luck. He had expected no mercy from Ecklie at all, and yet he still left open a window of opportunity for Greg to climb back in once everything was OK again.

He was in such a daze that he had forgotten his badge wasn't on him and was, in fact in his locker. So when he reached into his pocket to pull it out, it was his wallet instead. He blinked at it and his heart leapt into his throat. A small plastic bag was sticking out the top of it. Panicking, he tried to shove it back into his pocket.

"I believed that no longer belongs to you," said Ecklie.

"No, no, no, this is my wallet," said Greg hastily.

Grissom was frowning. "Then what are you so worried about?"

Greg was still struggling to get the wallet back into his pocket. And then, Grissom's desk phone began to ring and it startled Greg senseless. The wallet flew from his hand and landed on the floor. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears as Ecklie stepped forward and kneeled to pick it up.

He was just about to hand it politely back to Greg, who was sweating bullets and silently praying to anyone that would listen that Ecklie wouldn't notice the curious protrusion. But just as his fingers were inches shy of grasping the leather wallet, Ecklie pulled it back, a curious frown engulfing his features, and Greg knew it was his death sentence.

Ecklie opened the wallet and his mouth opened in a silent gasp before slamming shut like a guillotine. Greg closed his eyes and winced as he heard Ecklie snap the wallet shut and rise to his feet.

"Get out of my lab," Ecklie said, his voice low and cold.

Greg grasped at straws. "No, wait, listen, I can explain—"

"I said, get out of my lab," Ecklie reiterated, a finger pointing at Grissom's closed door. "You better thank God that I don't have you _arrested_!"

He tossed the wallet onto Grissom's desk, who slowly took it, his fingers wrapping around the leather before he opened it. Greg stared at him, unable to look away, even as a white hot, sharp pain stabbed at his chest. He watched hopelessly as his supervisor pulled out a tiny bag filled with Camellia's tea.

It was invisible to one who had not observed Grissom's facial expressions for eight years straight, but Greg slowly saw it fall into silent, masked, but oh so very pure disappointment. His icy blue eyes darted upwards and locked with Greg's and while the younger man had learned to read Grissom's expressions, his eyes were a whole other story.

"Griss..." Greg tried desperately. "You don't understand. I mean, aren't you the one who says not to jump to conclu—"

"Greg Sanders, if you don't leave this building immediately I will call security and you will be arrested for illegal possession of narcotics," Ecklie interrupted sharply. "You have five minutes starting now to clean out your locker."

Greg gaped. "Isn't that a little harsh—"

"I have no tolerance for addicts in this job," Ecklie said icily. "It requires your full focus at all times. You hold the futures of criminals and innocents in your hand and if a court ever finds that you were under the influence while processing any scene—"

"But I wasn't!" Greg protested. "I wasn't, I _swear_—"

"You have not only compromised every single case you've ever worked on, but your colleagues' reputations as well," snapped Ecklie. "Four minutes and fifteen seconds."

Greg opened his mouth to argue more when Grissom cut him off. His voice was a faint whisper, like a forlorn ghost, and yet it held more dominion over Greg than Ecklie's shouting ever could. "Just go, Greg."

Greg's heart cracked like ice, but he clenched his teeth and nodded. His eyes fell on the wallet in Grissom's hands. "Could I maybe have my..." For a moment, Grissom looked as if Greg was asking for the drugs back, so the young CSI hastily reiterated. "I mean, my wallet... s'got... my cards and stuff, and I just got new ones a few months ago, so..."

"Oh..." said Grissom, and he nodded. He pulled out every last bag of tea. Greg counted six, but there may have been more. His vision was hazy and his stomach was queasy, so his counting wasn't too reliable. And then, Grissom handed Greg the wallet.

Nodding in a cold and professional way at both Ecklie and Grissom, Greg turned around and quietly walked away. His hand had closed around the cold doorknob of Grissom's office door when he heard his ex-supervisor call his name.

"Greg..."

The younger man froze. He knew Grissom so well, that he could imagine the expression chiseled on his features. He had taken off his glasses by now, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose, quite possibly in an effort to halt an oncoming migraine in its tracks. But Greg knew from experience that nothing could stop a migraine. It was like a hurricane that ravaged your brain whether you were prepared for it or not. The drugs had caused many of them for Greg. Especially the Valium withdrawal. Yes, Greg and his headache had become best friends, and often times his brain's permanent roommate would invite all its fun friends. Photopsia. Nausea. Vertigo. Paresthesia. Photophobia. It was like a crazy party in his skull and no one cared about how badly they trashed the house.

"This isn't over."

Greg blinked. He had forgotten where he was for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at Grissom and saw the older man staring at him intently. Unable to form words, Greg simply nodded, opened the door, and left. And, unable to help himself, he slammed the door behind him.

He did not look up as he traveled the halls to the locker room to retrieve his things. He did not want to know the people he was passing, or allow them to see his shame. And he definitely wanted to avoid Nick and Catherine and the inevitable questions that came with them, which were always sprinkled with concern.

He entered the room quickly and threw open his locker, throwing things out onto the bench hastily. All he wanted to do was leave as quickly as possible, without any questions or trouble. Let Grissom explain it to them. Because Greg couldn't face them, not now, not when Grissom had so callously dismissed him. Because Greg couldn't face them, not when he knew that Grissom was right.

He left his vest hanging there because it wasn't his property, and he took out a few changes of clothes he kept in case he needed them. He scrounged around the floor of the locker and found an old tube of hair gel, half gone. The top was encrusted with dry gel and the colors on the tube were faded. He smiled. It had been a long time since he'd used that brand. With a sigh, he tossed it onto his growing pile of stuff on the bench and groped at the back until he clutched what he thought was a rag. Pulling it out and examining it, he saw it was a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt that smelled as though it hadn't been washed in a decade. He paused, his brow furrowing. With a sigh, he closed the locker and threw the shirt in a nearby trash can.

"What are you doing?"

Greg froze as chilling tendrils of panic slithered across his skin. He looked up to see Nick in the doorway, his eyes wide with questions Greg didn't want to answer.

"Leaving," he said as simply as he could.

Nick frowned. "Why? Where have you been all night?"

"Out," Greg answered, trying to remain as vague as possible.

Nick didn't like it. "Greg..."

"I was fired," Greg said, seizing his things. "So if you don't mind, I've been told I have to be off the premises in about thirty seconds.

But Nick wouldn't move from the doorway, horror overpowering his features. "What?"

"It's no big deal," Greg assured him. "I mean... Would you just move, please? I don't want Ecklie to call security on me."

"Why would he do that?" Nick asked, clearly breathless. He looked so pale, Greg wondered if the Texan would faint.

"I... don't know," Greg muttered. "Because he's Ecklie." He walked determinedly towards Nick and stopped when they were inches apart and his friend still refused to move.

"Jesus, Greg, if only you'd have listened to me..." Nick whispered, shaking his head. "I _warned_ you, I tried to tell you that you were on the cusp of getting fired—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Greg mumbled.

"Well tough, because we're going to damn well talk about this," Nick growled, aggressively. "What the fuck is going on with you, man? You're reclusive, agitated, defensive—"

"I'm not defensive!"

"There, you see?!" Nick cried. His horror had slowly morphed into desperation as he stared at Greg. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore! You don't joke, not even about stupid things, or to break the tension. You don't even _smile_ anymore, Greg, and when you do it's plastic. A mask, a façade that you think you can hide behind, but you _can't_, because I _know_ you, Greg. I do. And this... this _person_ you've become? It's not you. The Greg I know wouldn't get stoned and miss work. The Greg I know would always be on time and eager to please. The Greg I know would sing, loudly, and out of key, and he would dance, and turn the music up way too loud. And there was one thing I never had to worry about with him, and that was whether or not he was happy. Because he was _always_ happy, _genuinely_ happy, and even when _I_ wasn't happy, I could always count on him to pull a laugh out of me. But now... Now, the music is gone, and there is no dancing, and the only happiness I see in you is incited by drugs."

Nick wasn't aware of how right he was. "Nick, I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Nick uttered, hopelessly. "I mean, it's what you do best, right? Not talking about things?" Suddenly, he was frustrated. "I mean, good _God_, Greg, I thought we had a deal. I thought you _promised _me, I thought—"

"What?!" Greg finally burst out. "What did I promise you, Nick? Because if you _seriously_ expect me to remember a promise I made when I had the attention span of a canary, than you must be taking more drugs than I am! I am _tired_ of you talking about this fucking _promise_!"

The brown irises slowly froze over, like muddy ice, and Nick's jaw was set. "You don't remember," he said, as if he should have known it all along.

"No, Nick, I don't," Greg finally confessed. "Because I was fucking high, OK?"

Nick inhaled a trembling breath. Greg was so close, he could smell the cinnamon from Nick's gum. "You promised that if you were having problems, then you would come to me first, before you turned to marijuana. You promised that you would let me know what was going on with you before you ever touched another joint. Because... Because, Greg, I don't understand what's happening to you and I'm just so scared that..." His eyes were moist and his voice was trembling, which may be why he snapped his jaw shut to contain himself. He seemed resolved not to let too much emotion show in front of Greg. Maybe he didn't trust Greg that much anymore after all.

He wiped at his eyes and swallowed before he finished his thought. "Drugs, they played a large role in Warrick's death, and I don't want to lose another... I can't lose you, Greg."

Greg clenched his teeth to keep himself from breaking down. "No. Warrick's problems are not _my_ problems. I am not that guy, I am not some druggie sleeping on park benches living from high to high. I'm just... looking for a way to relax. I need that, especially... especially now."

"Why especially now?" Nick pressed.

"Ask Grissom."

"Well, I'm asking _you_!" Nick insisted.

Greg shook his head. "No, I have to go. Seriously. Or Ecklie will have my ass, and I really can't afford to be arrested right now."

"Arrested?"

"Just get out of my _way_, Nick!" Greg yelled so forcefully that it actually succeeded in making the burly Texan budge. He took a step back and Greg pushed him further until he escaped the locker room with his things in his hands.

"Greg!" he heard Nick yell after him. "_Greg!_"

But the younger man said nothing in response as he made his way out the door.

* * *

There was only one place for him left to go. He had several loose ends to tie up, but the frayed end of his rope was at a single location. And after that, things would start to get better. After that, he would get his life back on track. No more half-conscious sex, no more drugs, and definitely no more Camellia.

He banged incessantly on her door until she answered. She seemed mildly surprised to see him there. "Back so soon? You normally wait a few weeks for a refill."

Greg said nothing as he barged into her house, not even waiting for an invitation. "I need to talk to you," he hissed.

"Concerning what?" she asked, nodding towards the living room. She headed towards it and he followed reluctantly.

"No, I think this is something you would prefer to do in private."

She stopped and turned. "What is it?" she asked, standing in the hallway and eying him in a peculiar fashion.

"How long have you known that you had HIV?" Greg whispered.

Camellia was an experienced actor, so if this fazed her she did not allow it to show. "Who told you that I have HIV?"

"No more games," Greg hissed. "Cards on the table. Every last one of them. There are some things about you that I am no longer comfortable with leaving a mystery."

She took a deep breath. "I... didn't know for sure until a few weeks ago."

"After Lyle was stabbed," Greg deduced.

Her eyes widened at this. "You know about...?"

"Yeah, I know Gemini stabbed Lyle because she did a little too much Angel Dust. And you ran into your doctor. Did you know that you gave it to him?"

"To my doctor?" Camellia asked.

"No, to fucking Lyle!" Greg snapped. "He showed me his first fucking lesion!"

Camellia swallowed. She gripped the hem of her tight red t-shirt before lifting it to reveal her stomach, where Greg could see two maroon bruise-looking discolorations on her skin. "Did it look anything like this?"

Greg raked his hands through his hair in disbelief. "You knew... You knew this _whole time_. You _fucked_ me and yet you neglected to mention to me that you were HIV positive?!"

"I didn't think it would matter!" she screamed shrilly.

Greg's eyes doubled in size. "You didn't think it would— _What?!_ We fucking had _sex_ and this is, among other things, a sexually transmitted disease, and yet you didn't think it _mattered_ enough to tell me?!"

"No!" Camellia snapped back. "Because you had a condom!"

Greg paused. "I... I did?"

"I put it on you myself," Camellia assured him.

Greg vaguely remembered seeing a used condom on the floor. "Still... Regardless, condoms _fail_. There are _risks_ involved, and I could still be... I mean, maybe you... _Fuck_, Camellia, what the hell is your problem!"

"I didn't _know_ at the time, OK?" Camellia cried defensively. "I didn't know until the next morning, and by then I was so shook up about what had gone on that night, I didn't..." She stopped. "The last thing I needed was one more person hating me."

There was a strange, indecipherable silence. And then, Greg quietly asked, "What's your name?"

She shook her head. "You don't want to know that."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know," said Greg.

"Conejo—"

"How come you never call me by _my_ real name?" Greg asked. "The only time I ever heard you say it was at the lab, in front of Hodges and Nick. But you never call me 'Greg' around anyone else. Only sugar, or cariño, or some other Spanish term... or Rabbit. Why do you do this? Not even Lyle calls me by my real name anymore, and he's known me longer than any of you."

She was trembling on the spot. "I don't... I don't know," she replied, shakily.

"Yes, you do," said Greg. "You do, I know you do."

"No, I don't," Camellia uttered. She shook her head and offered her hands to him, palms up. "I have no more answers for you, little Rabbit... Greg."

Greg wanted to ask more, but before he could she spun on her heel and marched into the living room. Greg followed her. "This conversation isn't over," he said loudly, even as he acknowledged all the druggies hanging out. He nodded at Frank and waved at Roger.

"Hey, Roger," he called.

"Hey, Rabbit," the CPA answered without looking up from his line of cocaine.

Greg almost took a moment to consider the coincidental humor of their greetings, but forgot all about it as his eyes found a new girl. She was young, maybe nineteen if that, and she was grinding pills on the table. She had a nose and lip ring, and her hair was dyed black. And then, Greg finally understood Camellia's group of friends. They weren't permanent. Not at all. Some might stay longer than others, but in the end all of them were replaceable. So long as there was a market, there would be dealers, and Camellia did not seem to lack for eager customers. If she lost one of her social circle, there was always someone to take his place.

"Fuck this..." he muttered. "I'm not going to become another one of your disposable customers."

"What?" Camellia blinked.

"I'm out of here. Game over," said Greg.

"Honey, you need to calm down," Misty called. "Here, babe, Athena here has some nice pills for you..."

"No," said Greg. "No more pills, no more tea, no more anything. I'm done with all this shit." He looked up at Camellia. "But there is one thing I need to know about you—"

He was interrupted by a shattering of glass, the tinkling bell-like sound of all the fractured pieces falling onto hardwood floors. There was the screeching of wheels, a roar of an engine, and the crashing of plaster, and shrieks of surprise coming from all around.

And just like that, Greg's priorities changed.


	15. Antarctica

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm caught up to my writing now... I'll try and be prompt with updates. Enjoy the long chapter.

* * *

A cloud of plaster dust obscured Greg's vision and he heard coughing. He waved his hand in front of his eyes as the dust settled and saw a jeep, which had decided to drive itself through Camellia's bay window. It had damaged the support of the walls on either side of the window and caused some plaster to fall to the ground. The windshield was smashed to pieces and the airbags were deployed, so Greg couldn't see what had happened to the driver, though he knew immediately who the driver had to be.

He had seen this jeep before.

There was a grunt of pain and Greg looked down to see that Camellia was on her side on the floor, slowly getting to her feet. They had both been standing a few feet away from the window, and as the car was right in front of him, he knew it had to have hit her. Immediately, he was kneeling before her and noticed that her hair on the left side of her head was red and matted with blood as she coughed.

"Jesus!" he screamed. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Be careful, the blood—"

"Fuck that," Greg muttered. He looked over at the couch, where all the others were staring at the scene in fascinated horror.

"OK, that's it, I'm outta here!" said Roger with a sniff. He grabbed a bag of cocaine and made a dash for the door.

"Best get going before the cops arrive," Toxic advised, and the girls nodded.

"Hey!" Greg shouted as Toxic, Misty and Athena made their way to the door. The trio paused. "Your friend is hurt! Don't you think you should _do_ something about it?"

"She's not _my_ friend," Athena said snidely.

Misty and Toxic exchanged glances. The former gave a nod. "You OK, girl?"

"I'm fine," Camellia said, followed by a cough.

"Good enough for me. Let's go, Toxic."

"What?!" Greg screamed in disbelief.

"I'll get the phone," said Frank, heading to the kitchen.

"Thank you," Greg sighed.

"I'm too high to drive. I need a cab."

Greg gawked at him as he disappeared. "Can you _believe_—"

"Yes, I can," Camellia interrupted harshly. "Now get out of here. _You_ don't want to be here when I call the cops." She tried to get to her feet and swayed.

"No, lay down," Greg insisted, taking her over to the couch. "I'll call 911."

She tried to push him away. "This is my problem. Why do you care so much?"

"Because that's what human beings are supposed to do," Greg insisted as they reached the couch. "Now lay the fuck down."

She obliged and groaned, holding her hand to her head. "I think some plaster might have..."

"Don't talk. Just rest," Greg insisted.

With her taken care of, he went over to the driver's side of the car. Once again, there was a face scrunched up against the windshield, but there was blood this time, and dented glass, one eye open and almost popping out of the socket, the other too bruised to tell. The blood was all over the wheel and the airbag that had deployed and was holding him up against his seat. Greg reached for the door with tentative fingers and bated breath, when the horn exploded into a high pitched whine and he recoiled and covered his ears.

"Jesus..." he muttered, and pulled out his phone as he walked around the car to check on Camellia. He called her name, but she was already passed out on the couch. Greg knew that wasn't a good sign. He held the phone to his ear and, for the first time, saw a phrase spray painted on the damaged hood of the blue jeep in red ink. It wasn't a long message, but it was bold, and it made everything clear. This was no accident. Not at all.

_Take that, you cunt._

Greg swallowed, when someone picked up on the other one. "911, what is your emergency?"

"Hey, I need an ambulance at 6328 Maple Drive. I have a woman unconscious with a head wound, and possibly other injuries, I don't know."

"OK, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you know what caused the injuries?"

"Yes," said Greg. "A car drove into her house. Through a window. A—a bay window, and it damaged the supporting walls and some plaster fell from the ceiling. She was hit by the car, but I think a chunk of plaster may have hit her head."

"Were you driving the car?"

Greg was shaking. He was drenched in sweat. He was seeing spots again. "No. No, I was here, with her, someone else was driving the car, and I think it was suicide. Listen, I—I have to go, I can't... I need to do something."

"Sir, could you please stay on the scene until an ambulance—"

"No, no, sorry, I can't, I can't, I have to go... She'll be fine. He's dead. The driver of the jeep, I mean, he's dead. But I have to go."

"Can I have your name?"

"Yes, it's Greg Sanders," he answered hastily. "Thanks. Bye."

He hung up swiftly and looked back at Camellia on the couch, who wasn't moving. He called her name a few times and tried to shake her lightly, but she didn't respond. He wasn't a medic. He didn't know what to do. He was trained in CPR, and so made sure that her airways were clear and turned her onto her side, but other than that, he couldn't think of anything else to do.

And he needed to get home. He needed to drown himself with pills. He needed to shake the withdrawal symptoms, to forget that Lyle was dead, and that he might have AIDS, and that the woman who gave it to him could slip away into a coma. He needed to forget everything.

He just wanted his old life back.

And so, he fled the scene of the crime, leaving Camellia and her mess for the medics and the police to sort out. After all, she was right. It wasn't his problem.

* * *

He opened his door and let it fall backwards, but never heard it click. He leaned against the wall and taking deep breaths. His hands were shaking, drenched in a frigid sweat, and his whole body was enveloped by chills. His stomach churned as lights danced in front of his spotty vision and all he wanted was darkness.

He didn't notice that his cat was not there to greet him.

Way beyond panic, Greg ran to his kitchen and seized the bottle of pills off of the table. He poured a couple into his hand and snatched his pipe before marching off down the hall to his room, where he found his marijuana. He packed the last of it into the pipe, took his lighter, and ignited the weed. He inhaled deeply before slapping a shaking hand to his mouth and swallowing the pills dry. He coughed slightly, but they were already moist from his sweaty palm, which he was wiping on his pants. He made his way to the bathroom, still deeply agitated, as he poured himself a glass of water and downed it in one gulp.

He gripped the sink and stared at his wan complexion in the mirror. Red veins crawled across the gray of his eyes like roots of a deadly plant. He was as gaunt as a ghost, and he thought dimly that he might as well be one. He never saw his friends anymore, at least not his real ones. His health was deteriorating. He was dependent on a tiny pill. He was infected. With what, he could not be specific, but he _knew_ he was infected, and the virus was slowly eating away at his organs like acid, or tiny termites attacking wood, and he felt its teeth biting into him at every moment.

He raked a hand through his sweat drenched hair and took another hit off of his pipe. That's when the marijuana really began to kick in and his world grew hazy, the colors softer, and the lights dimmer. His head swam, but he was still on edge, still scared out of his mind, and he was too petrified to move. He clutched the sink as if letting go meant drowning in a sea of bile and sweat, and he wasn't ready for that, not now, not yet.

The pot was making his head spin and he was dizzy. He needed to lie down on his bed. He needed something to eat. He needed to curl up and die...

He moved slowly, his hands on the cold tile of the bathroom wall as he inched his way toward the door. He was afraid that if he let go of the wall he would lose himself. And so, gripping both sides of the doorway, he slithered against the wall, his body flat against it as he sidled over to his room and slipped in the door before falling onto his knees and crawling across the hardwood floor, dragging his tired body desperately across it. There was a tingling sensation flooding his muscles, and his headache wouldn't relent, even with the drugs. He tediously dragged himself up onto his bed and, shivering, slipped under the covers as quickly as he could. He curled up beneath them, holding his knees against his chest, and the room began to spin. Nothing was getting better. Everything was worse.

_Where is Liver_? he thought, a sense of dread falling over him.

He closed his eyes tight, for some reason desperate to feel the rough, patchy fur that always seemed so soft in this state. But Liver was gone, and even if he could feel the cat, he would know it for what it was. An old, shedding feline on its last leg, blind in one eye, ugly in most respects, and yet he was still Greg's cat now, because the old thing had adopted him. Maybe he wasn't Greg's cat anymore.

He felt abandoned all over again.

His head swirled as his muscles felt heavy. He had way too many thoughts. He tried not to care, even as the Valium loomed sleepily on the horizon like an oncoming storm. _Why is it taking so long to work?!_ Greg demanded. The drug usually took effect within five minutes. He closed his eyes tight and waited.

"What are you waiting for?" came an eerily familiar and ethereal voice. "Open your eyes and look around."

And he did, inhaling a sharp breath as he stared up at the brightest blue sky he'd ever seen, and tiny icicles slashed painfully at his lungs. He exhaled. The air tasted like copper and smelled like shortbread cookies and the silence was impenetrable. And, when he looked up into the sky, a nice round hole of darkness and stars presented itself, as if the blue was only a facade, a blanket covering up the darkness beyond it.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Ozone," said his tour guide, stepping beside him.

Greg was dressed in a parka, and did not feel cold or hot. His body tingled slightly and he smiled. "Nah, that's not how the ozone layer works."

"It is down here."

"Where are we?"

"Antarctica," said Mr. Lies with a broad grin.

Greg laughed. "Jesus, I can't even come up with original hallucinations anymore. I'm channeling Mary Louis Parker."

"Did I take you to the wrong place?" Mr. Lies asked with a curious cock of the eyebrow. "Because if you think that I did, I have to tell you that it is the official policy of the International Order of Travel Agents not to give refunds."

Greg smiled dimly, his eyes glazed over. "No... Maybe I belong here. Frozen, like everything else."

"People tend to like the quiet," Mr. Lies observed.

"No voices..." Greg whispered. "No chills, no sweats, no... no goddamn _headaches_... Maybe the cold is good for me."

"Very good," Mr. Lies agreed. "Clears the head. Soothes the senses, some might say."

"I could just build myself an igloo and stay here forever," Greg said with a faint smile.

"Mm, not forever," said Mr. Lies. "We are a vacation agency only. No one-way tickets sold."

"So when is my next flight?"

"Probably soon."

Greg bit his lip. "Are you sure you don't have _any_ one-way tickets?"

Mr. Lies smiled that wide, toothy smile again. Greg's own personal Cheshire Cat. "Well, we do have... _one_ very specific package that includes a one-way ticket. The destination is non-negotiable, though."

Greg nodded with a sigh. "That's what I thought."

"Are you interested?" Mr. Lies inquired.

Greg was growing cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared up at the black hole in the blue sky. Though it was scattered with stars, it seemed deep, shifting, and infinite. It was darker than any night sky Greg had ever witnessed before. "I think I want to go home."

"You know," Mr. Lies began, "you're a fairly regular client by now. Rack up enough frequent flier points and you may earn a free one-way ticket one of these days."

"Free?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "What's the price of this vacation?"

"Your soul." The Cheshire Cat grin glimmered in the bright white light.

Greg gave out a curt chuckle. "Yup. You should check that deposit for counterfeiting. I think I've sold that thing a couple of times now."

"No, you haven't," said Mr. Lies. "Just pieces of it. Little bits at a time. It's been crumbling, and every fragment sold for a fraction of what its worth."

"And what is it worth?" Greg asked.

"Well..." Mr. Lies began, pensively. "Let's just say that I know someone who's willing to give you more than it's worth."

"Mm..." Greg intoned dully. "I wish I could see him right now. I would tell him everything. Explain everything. And he would smile and kiss me and tell me that he doesn't care. He would say that he doesn't care about any of it. Not the stupid mistakes I made, not the drugs, or the addiction, or the disease, or all the reasons why—"

"What _are_ the reasons why?" Mr. Lies inquired, tilting his head in curiosity as he sat on a nearby ice chunk.

Greg looked at him, his expression blank. "I was tired of who I was... of who I'd become. I was tired of all of my attempts at good deeds just... erupting back in my face. Demetrius James. The woman in the white dress. That yuppy punk at Valhalla... Sara..."

"What about Sara?"

Greg tried to dismiss it. "Nothing, never mind... I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, you said Sara. How exactly is she a brick that paves the road to Hell?"

Greg was shivering now. "It's too cold here... I don't like it."

"Tell me about Sara," Mr. Lies urged.

Greg was uncomfortable. "I... couldn't stop her."

"From... leaving?"

"I tried," said Greg. "But over the years, we... drifted. And I don't know what it was. Maybe it was Grissom. Maybe she just... got tired of me. Or maybe it was because I'd changed. But I tried anyway. After the desert, I could tell she was different. And the funny thing is, I'm not sure or not if Grissom could see it. He seemed surprised when she left, but I wasn't. As far as I was concerned, it was a long time coming. And I tried to get her to talk to me, but she didn't."

"People change," said Mr. Lies. "It's a fact of life. She left because she had no other choice."

"She did, she had choices, we all have _choices_," Greg spat, almost bitterly. "I had choices. I made the wrong ones, but I don't try and claim that I didn't have any choices to make. I chose to hit the gas on the Denali, and I _chose_ to pull the trigger of that gun, and I _chose_ to help that kid. She had a choice. She could have talked about it. But nobody talks about anything in the lab. Nobody wants to admit that they're weak. That they're... human. Except for..."

"Except him," Mr. Lies finished for him.

Greg was shivering madly now, rubbing his arms. "Oh God, I wish I could see him so badly."

"Time to go," said Mr. Lies, and before Greg could even reply, the Antarctic dissolved around him like paint off of walls and he was staring at his wall, his knees to his chest, his covers over him and unbearably warm.

The door to his bedroom creaked open. He wasn't facing that way, but he thought his cat had come home to comfort him.

"Liver..." he choked.

The door clicked quietly closed. It occurred to Greg that cats couldn't close doors. He wriggled around underneath the sweat drenched sheets and his heart stopped to see Nick standing in his room again, staring at him with a somber expression.

"You wander around my apartment often?" he inquired, panting for breath.

"Your door was open," Nick replied evenly. He frowned in a peculiar expression and kneeled next to the bed.

"Oh God, I'm so glad you're here..." Greg choked.

He paused and his frown deepened. "You are?"

Greg sniffed and nodded vigorously with his eyes closed. He was nodding so hard he heard his brain rattling inside his skull. "Come here... please? Just come closer, I need you here so badly. Please."

He seemed to hesitate, his hands hovering over the bed, before he nodded and without another word, he climbed up onto the bed and was lying on top of the comforter and parallel to Greg, who was shivering beneath the covers. Greg closed his eyes.

"Why won't you touch me?" he breathed.

There was another heavy pause, and then, Greg felt soft, calloused fingertips on his forehead, pushing his sweat-drenched hair away from his face. Greg let out a shuddering sigh. Nick shifted, and his fingers moved back into Greg's hair, twirling Greg's curls around his fingers. Slowly, he pressed his palm against Greg's cheek and it moved back, stroking the scalp, fingers gently combing through moist hair.

"I wish you were really here..." Greg breathed.

The hand in his hair stopped moving. "I am really here."

"No, you're not," said Greg. "You never are."

The hand moved again, tucking a stray strand of hair neatly behind Greg's ear. "Then what am I?"

Greg took a deep breath and his shoulders came up to his ears. "The... drugs."

"What drugs?"

"I don't know which one."

The hand retreated and Greg opened his eyes to see Nick's shocked expression.

"What? What's wrong?" Greg asked, desperate to feel his touch again.

Nick looked pale. "How many drugs are you on?"

"Currently?" Greg almost laughed. He shook his head. "I think just two."

Nick pursed his lips. "Which ones?"

Greg shook his head. "I don't remember..."

A hand was on his cheek again, soft and encouraging. "Try."

He thought very hard. "The... pot and, um... V-valium."

Nick inhaled sharply through his nose and pursed his lips. Greg knew that meant he was angry.

"But..." Greg began. "You're not supposed to care! You're... you're supposed to tell me that it's OK, that you don't care, and that everything will be alright. You're supposed to say that you're just glad I'm OK, and that you'll..." He swallowed. "You'll help me. Oh God, please help me."

He closed his eyes and the tears streaked down his face. The next thing he knew, strong, steady arms were embracing him and his face was buried in a black shirt. Greg realized just how badly he was shaking, even though he was burning up beneath the sheets of his bed. But Nick's grip was solid. He did not loosen it or tighten it. He just held Greg still as the broken man pulled his arms to his chest and let the Texan hold him.

"I need you so damn much, I don't know what to do..." Greg said, his voice a heavy vibrato. "I can't stop. I've tried, and it just won't stop. And I don't want to be like them, without anyone to care what happens to me... I don't want to be like them."

"Sh..." Nick soothed. "You have plenty of people who care what happens to you, Greg."

"But you don't care..." Greg breathed. "I mean, you care... but not the way I want you to."

"I think you'd be surprised," said Nick, almost inaudibly.

"I wish you were real..." Greg muttered. "But it couldn't be like this if you were. So I don't know what I want."

"Why's that?" Nick asked, and Greg could feel the vibrations of Nick's voice in his chest.

Greg pulled away and looked up at Nick with dark eyes ready to acknowledge reality. "You aren't him. You're giving me what I want. Telling me what I want to hear."

"I will always give you what you want, Greg," Nick whispered.

"I want _you_." Greg said through clenched teeth. There was a sharp pang in his chest and he tensed.

"What is it?" Nick asked, suddenly on guard.

"I don't know... maybe I'm having a heart attack," said Greg.

"Greg..."

"Or maybe I just imagined it," Greg murmured.

Nick's hand was on Greg's forehead. He was moving unusually fast. "Jesus, Greg, you're burning up." He moved off the covers and threw them off of Greg.

Greg was suddenly chilled. "No, what are you doing, I need those—"

"No, you don't," said Nick, moving to the door. "You need a doctor."

Greg snorted. "So what, you going to call one?"

Nick spun around and glared at Greg. "You've taken Valium and marijuana. How much Valium, G?"

Greg was confused. "Why are you acting like this? Why are you being this way? You're acting like..."

"Myself?" Nick suggested. "Stay here, I'm going to... I'll be right back."

"No!" Greg yelled. "If you leave, you won't come back. I know how this works."

"No, Greg, you really don't. Just stay here." And with that, he slammed the door, and Greg was alone with his shattered mind again. He closed his eyes and inhaled, the breath rattling in his lungs. He quivered. He turned onto his side and clutched the sheets in his hands, waiting for what felt like an eternity. He needed more pills. He needed Nick.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door burst open and Nick marched in, holding a towel and kicking the door closed. He walked briskly over to the bed and kneeled beside him on the mattress. "Lie still," he insisted.

Greg turned onto his back and opened his eyes, staring up into Nick's somber expression as he laid the cold towel across his forehead. He shivered from the cold, but he had to admit that it did feel good.

"I need... to make it stop," Greg breathed, closing his eyes again and trying hard to stay still like Nick ordered. "I need... The pills are in the kitchen, I think, if you could just—"

"No," Nick insisted. "No more pills."

Greg's eyes snapped open and he examined the man stooped over him. For the first time he realized what was wrong with this situation. First of all, he was in pain, and it was difficult to concentrate. Generally, he had no pain until after the main effects of the drugs had worn off. And on top of that, Nick was as white as the bed sheets, and his eyes were as dark as the hole in the ozone layer.

"Oh my God..." he whispered, his voice dry. "It's you..."

The towel slid back into Greg's hair and Nick pushed it back on the younger man's forehead, his hands flying to the pulse point on his neck. "I'm not sure who you want, but I'm what you've got."

"Oh Jesus, and I said all those stupid things," Greg groaned, his hands immediately covering his face as his cheeks burned.

"I told you not to move," Nick ordered. "Where do you keep your thermometer?"

"My... what?"

"Thermometer, Greg!" Nick snapped. "Where is it?"

Greg tried to think. "Bathroom... Cabinet..."

"I checked there already," said Nick. "Jesus... I should get you to the hospital."

"No!" Greg insisted. "No, no doctors, no, Nick, I just want you. Please, no doctors."

"Greg, you have a fever—"

"It'll pass!" Greg hissed.

Nick chewed on his lip. "OK, I'll try and bring the fever down, but if I can't—"

"No doctors, no hospitals, nothing like that," said Greg.

Nick cupped his hands over his mouth. "Greg, I don't know what to do..."

"Yes, you do," Greg panted. "You just have to... bring down the fever... There's nothing a doctor can't do that _you_ can't do, OK, just... Oh God, it's hot..."

Nick pursed his lips and held his breath before he nodded. "OK... OK, just come on. Come with me."

Greg's head was spinning, but he could have sworn he felt Nick's arms slide beneath him, resting in the crook of his knees and on his upper back. He arched his back and groaned.

"Stay _still_!" Nick hissed, and the next thing Greg knew, he was levitating. Only, it wasn't genuine levitation because something was holding him, cradling him and he found his head lolling backwards on his shoulders, and one arm reached up and hooked around Nick's neck.

Nick kicked open the door and Greg found himself being carried down the hall into his bathroom. Nick kicked the door closed behind them and gently laid Greg down so the younger man was leaning against the door. Greg closed his eyes as his skin burned. There was the sound of running water and he imagined a waterfall. He badly wanted Mr. Lies to take him there. He needed his pills.

He hadn't even been aware that he had made any noise, until Nick hushed him again.

"Stop groaning," Nick snapped irritably. "It's distracting."

Greg opened his eyes to see Nick striding towards him before the Texan kneeled in front of him on the tile. "What are you doing?"

"Do you trust me, Greg?" Nick asked.

"You're the only one I trust," Greg replied, his voice raspy.

Nick reached out a tentative hand to Greg's forehead and pushed back his hair, and Greg realized he wasn't the only one who was shaking. "I hate seeing you like this," Nick said.

"I did it to myself. I deserve this."

"You may have done it to yourself, but you don't deserve this." Nick was shaking his head. "No one as... No one like you deserves this."

Greg swallowed to open his throat, but said nothing. He closed his eyes again, his head pounding. And then, his skin was being peeled off. No... not his skin. His shirt was drenched with so much sweat, it only _felt_ like his skin. He opened his eyes to see Nick pulling the shirt up. Greg dutifully raised his arms, though his muscles were aching from the loss of the Valium. Nick struggled to strip off the blue t-shirt that was clinging to Greg's skin, but eventually succeeded and threw it at the wall, Greg's arms falling like dead weight to the floor.

They stared at each other a moment, Greg's chest heaving. For the first time, it felt strange to be shirtless in front of Nick, with the Texan watching him so intently. It was almost oddly... intimate.

"Now what?" Greg asked.

Nick looked uncomfortable. "I need... your jeans."

Greg's lips twitched. "This was never how I imagined this."

"You imagined this?"

Greg's heart lurched. "No. Never mind."

Nick still seemed confused, but he said nothing. He reached for Greg's waist and hesitated, his hands hovering in the air. He looked up at Greg, as if for his approval, but the younger man just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the door.

"Greg."

"What?" Greg moaned.

"Your jeans."

"Take them."

"I... Maybe you'd prefer to... do it yourself."

His eyes still closed, Greg reached out, his hands hovering in the air, palms up. "Give me your hands."

Slowly, Nick obliged. Greg opened his eyes, his wan face blank as he looked at Nick, holding his hands. If he hadn't been experiencing withdrawal symptoms, if he didn't think he might be dying of AIDS, if he didn't have the excuse of blaming his behavior on delirium, then he would have never had the confidence to do what he was doing. He slowly guided Nick's hands to his hips, before allowing his own hands to glide up Nick's arms, his fingertips making note of every groove of every muscle. And then, finally, his hands reached Nick's shoulders and his thumbs pushed into the muscle there. His eyes remained on the floor, afraid to see Nick's expression, although the fact that the Texan's hands were still on his hips was probably a good sign. Slowly, painstakingly, his head pounding, his vision spotty, and his breath shallow, he raised his gaze to meet Nick's.

"It's OK," Greg whispered. "Isn't it?"

"Greg, now isn't exactly the time..." A tinge of red was creeping into the Texan's pale cheeks as he looked abruptly away from Greg.

Greg flinched again as the sharp and sudden pain in his chest returned. His hand immediately flew there as he tried to focus on his breathing. "It's not OK."

"No," said Nick. "No, that's not what's wrong, Greg. _You're_ not OK. Here..." And, holding his breath, the Texan reached for Greg's jeans and unbuttoned them with Greg watching him intently. He pulled at them and Greg assisted him in pulling them off.

"You going to strip me completely?" Greg asked, with an attempt at a smile.

Nick emitted a short chuckle as he scooped Greg up again, seemingly breathless and led him to the bathtub, lowering him down in about an inch or so of lukewarm water.

"I guess that's a no..." said Greg as he felt the water soak his boxers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wanting badly to fall asleep and take the pain away. He took a rattling breath as he felt the water on his forehead.

"The water is too hot..."

"No, it isn't," said Nick, as he sponged Greg's skin slowly, tenderly. "It's a little above room temperature. I don't want you to start shivering."

"I already _am_ shivering," Greg groaned. "Why don't you just give me some Ibuprofen or something?"

"More drugs? To you? No way," Nick said, shaking his heads. "And anyway, I don't think your fever is very high," Nick muttered, almost more to himself than to Greg. "You wouldn't be coherent otherwise."

"I'm very incoherent," said Greg. "You just happen to speak Crazy."

Nick said nothing, and when Greg opened his eyes again, he saw the ghost of a smile fade from Nick's features. Neither of them spoke for a long time as Nick tried to cool Greg down.

"That's the first time I've heard you say anything that resembled a joke," said Nick, finally breaking the silence.

"It's the fever talking..." Greg murmured with his eyes closed. He wanted so badly just to fall asleep right there. But for some reason he couldn't manage to slip away.

"I think you're cooling down," said Nick after another moment.

"Then why do I still feel like shit?" Greg asked.

"No one said this would be easy," Nick uttered.

"The water's cold now," Greg mumbled.

Nick sighed and unplugged the drain. Greg heard the water gurgle and opened his eyes to see Nick watching the water swirl. The Texan's gaze flickered over to Greg.

"Now what?" Greg asked.

Nick sighed. He tossed Greg a nearby towel and the younger man caught it. His head was still screaming at him and his stomach was churning, but he had stopped shivering. He wrapped the towel tightly around himself.

"Take care of yourself," said Nick, and he rose to his feet.

"Wait!" Greg called. "Would you please stay?"

Nick held his breath a moment. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"I can't do this without you," Greg admitted, desperation in his voice. "Please..." He was clinging to the side of the tub now. "Don't leave me."

Nick stared at him for a long time.


	16. Descent

_**Author's Note:**_ I wanted to say that I do not own Mr. Lies. He belongs to Tony Kushner.

* * *

Brass flashed his badge at the officer as he stepped out of the car and headed towards the crime scene. He took in the jeep that was halfway through the wall of the house. His brow furrowed in fascination.

"Jesus..." he muttered to himself. "So what exactly happened here?"

The officer, a young, eager-looking man with a notepad in hand, was happy to fill Brass in. His nametag read 'Miller.' "Well, sir, um, according to the witness, this man here just, um, drove his car into the side of the house, striking a woman and killing himself."

"IDs?"

Officer Miller looked at his notes. "Er... Lyle Peréz and Ana O'Toole—No, wait, reverse that. Lyle O'Toole and Ana Peréz."

Brass cocked an eyebrow. He patted the rookie on the shoulder. "Take clearer notes, kid," he said, heading into the house.

The officer followed him like a puppy dog and was standing a little behind him as Brass took in the scene. "Where's the other vic? Ana Peréz?"

"She wasn't killed by the impact. Paramedics rushed her to the hospital. Status pending." The officer smiled, proud of his swift response.

"Uh huh..." muttered Brass, walking back out of the house again. He tipped his hat to David, who was just entering. "This should be pretty straightforward."

"Straightforward is good," said David. "Earlier, I was examining a body of a woman who died in her home weeks ago. I still don't know why."

Brass smiled as the assistant coroner passed him and entered the house. He glanced back at the officer, who was still tailing him. "So where's this witness?"

The officer blinked at him. "Witness, sir?"

"You said a witness told you what happened," Brass explained.

Officer Miller suddenly remembered. "Oh! Yeah, that guy. He fled the scene, sir."

"What?" Brass blinked. "Did anyone tell him to stay?"

"The operator tried to, but he said he had to go. She did get a name, though, so I'm sure you could contact him if you want."

A car pulled up just behind his own and Grissom and Catherine both stepped out. Brass beckoned them over. "I thought you said you were going to send Nick."

"He had an emergency," said Grissom, vaguely. "So what have we got?"

"Dead Caucasian male, mid thirties, in the jeep," said Brass. "ID says Lyle O'Toole. And there was also an injured female victim by the name of Ana Peréz, who was hit when the car went through the wall."

"Witness said it was suicide on O'Toole's part," Officer Miller chimed. "Looks like he had a vendetta against Peréz. This is her house, and the message on the jeep is less than charming."

"So what's this witness's name?" Brass asked.

Officer Miller's brow furrowed in thought. He flipped through his notepad. "Um..."

"Today would be good, Miller," Brass muttered, impatiently.

"Grey Sanderson." He squinted at the hand writing. "Or maybe Grow Sunflowers. I can't tell."

"Give me that," Brass demanded, snatching the notepad from Officer Miller's hands. "Can you even read your own handwriting?"

"This is my partner's handwriting," Officer Miller explained. "He's training me."

"Wait, this is Olsen's handwriting," said Brass. He chuckled, and softened on the rookie. "It took me a year to figure out that his Y's were really just U's with really curly tails. Don't feel too bad. Let's see..." He squinted at the writing, then frowned. He looked up towards the house. "Olsen! Could you come here a moment?"

A blond officer standing by the door nodded and approached. He smiled and patted Officer Miller on the back in a brotherly fashion. "What's up, Captain?"

Brass pointed at the writing in the notebook. "Tell me that doesn't say what I think it says."

"Depends on what you think it says," muttered Olsen, taking the notebook. "Ah. The witness? His name was Greg Sanders."

Brass's head shot of quickly to gauge the reactions of Grissom and Catherine. Grissom was as stoic as ever, but Catherine's concern was so apparent that even if there was a neon sign, it wouldn't make it more obvious.

"Hey, Captain," Olsen began. "Didn't you have us bring in a Greg Sanders a few months ago?"

"That'll be all, Olsen," said Brass, his eyes never leaving the two CSIs. "Why don't you take Officer Miller here and show him how to interview the neighbors?"

The police on their way, it left the three of them alone.

"What was Greg doing at this house?" Catherine breathed.

"More importantly, why didn't he stick around?" Grissom added.

"Well why don't we ask him?" Brass suggested.

Catherine was already fishing out her cell phone when Grissom stopped her. "No. He's had a rough day."

"Yeah, no kidding!" Catherine exclaimed. "My God, Grissom, what's been going on with him? Nick and I have both tried to talk to him about it, but he won't—"

"We don't even know if the person on the scene was _our_ Greg Sanders or not," Grissom reminded her.

Catherine raked her hands through her hair. "So then let me call him and we'll find out if he was here or not."

"Catherine, Greg was fired a few hours ago for, among other things, using the lab for personal reasons," Grissom explained.

"What personal reasons?" Catherine asked. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"Because I knew I couldn't tell you everything," Grissom explained. "This is Greg's private problems, it's not my place to—"

"Goddammit, Grissom, he's our _friend_. If you know what's wrong with him and you're keeping it from me, I swear—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's all calm down!" said Brass. "Listen, I'm going to head over to the hospital to check on Ana Peréz. I'll see if she's conscious and if she can give me an account of what happened. I'll leave Greg out of this for now, until tomorrow."

"I'm calling him," Catherine insisted.

"How about you just join Brass at the hospital?" Grissom suggested. "I can handle this scene on my own."

Reluctantly, Catherine agreed.

* * *

Nick did stay. He helped Greg out of the tub and they both discovered that the younger man was still too weak to walk on is own, so Nick led him back to his room and laid him down on the bed again where Greg closed his eyes.

"I'm so tired... But my body refuses to fall asleep."

"Valium is an anti-anxiety drug, right?" Nick said quietly, almost coldly. "It would make sense that everything it made easier would now be harder."

Greg's eyes snapped open to see Nick standing by the door with his arms folded, looking uncomfortable. "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" he breathed.

Nick took a deep breath before sighing it out again. "I don't think you're stupid, Greg. I think you've been making some stupid choices, but you're not stupid."

"Only stupid people make stupid choices," Greg pointed out, "which is why I always thought that the distinction between stupid people and stupid choices is moot." He watched Nick for a moment, the shivering beginning to return. "You just going to stand there all day?"

"Probably," Nick replied flatly, but he pursed his lips.

"Sorry..." Greg muttered, rubbing his arms and trying to still his rapidly beating heart. "Damn, this is... worse than any hangover."

"Mm," Nick intoned, coolly.

Greg's eyes fell closed once more as he inhaled, trying to focus on his breathing. "Seriously, though... sorry. About... the drugs, and... putting you in that... I mean, _this_ awkward position..." And then, timidly, he added, "You don't have to stay. I don't..." He paused. "I'm not worth staying for."

He turned away, rolling onto his side, his bloodshot eyes staring at the black out curtains as his body continued to shake and his stomach began to churn. "Would you, um... do me a favor and turn out the lights on your way out? It's... too bright in here."

He heard movement and a mixture of relief and disappointment flooded his strung-out system. Nick was leaving him there, to deal with this on his own, just like he deserved. Though Greg had told him to leave, he thought the Texan might have been a little more stubborn than that. The lights clicked off and the door closed, and Greg let out a sigh as he was, once again, left alone.

"Mr. Lies?" he breathed, his throat dry. "Take me back... Just take me to Antarctica, or... wherever, I don't even care. Buy me a one-way ticket anywhere. But I can't stay here. Not without him."

His lids fell closed once more and he took three breaths, before he heard the floorboards creak and his eyes were immediately open again. He tensed but did not move as the bed sank behind him, the sheets ruffling. A soft, tentative hand rested on his forearm.

A warm, quiet Southern drawl curled around his words. "You will never be without me, Greg."

Greg's breathing immediately became shallower. "I... I thought you..."

"Do you really think I could leave you like this?" Nick whispered.

Greg turned around completely so he was facing Nick. It was dark, but he could make out the Texan's outline kneeling in front of him. "Why wouldn't you? I've put you through hell. I've pushed you away. I've made you take care of me. I've... said some things that might have... scared you..."

"You did scare me," Nick confessed, slowly lying down parallel to Greg on the bed. His hand moved up and down Greg's arm. "But not in the way you might think."

"The drugs."

"Yeah, Greg, the drugs," Nick said, loudly. "What were you thinking?"

"I guess I... I thought it would be my great escape. I was so sick of my life. Everything was going wrong, and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

"You mean Warrick?" Nick whispered.

"He was part of it," Greg admitted. "So was Sara. So were you... But the majority of it was me. Just me. Fucked up, naive little me. When I was a kid, my mother never let me do after-school sports, so I spent the majority of my time playing chess and... reading comic books. And in that world, you know, that simple, two dimensional world, everything is so... clear. You know, the bad guys were wrong, and the good guys always saved the day. It's when I knew I wanted to go into law enforcement, only at the time I thought I could actually major in 'superhero' in college. But the world isn't like that. Anyone can see that comics are an idealist's fantasy, but... I guess I was an idealist. Even when everything kept going wrong, I thought that, since we were the good guys, we would still always somehow come out on top. But I just kept losing everything, and I... I was tired of being the hero. I wondered if I would have better luck if I just... broke the rules a little bit. I didn't think it would hurt anyone... least of all you." He looked up, into Nick's eyes. "I'm really... really sorry."

Nick continued to watch him as his hand still roamed up and down Greg's arm. And then, it moved to his forehead, warm against Greg's clammy skin, and pushed back his hair for the third time that night.

"The world needs idealism, Greg," Nick said, softly. "Because without ideals, then there is no hope for something better. Comics are so popular because they paint a picture of a simpler, more exciting world. But gray isn't such an ugly color. And you don't have to save the world. You don't have to be a hero, Greg."

"When I try to do right, it comes out wrong," Greg grumbled. "Logically, I figured if I tried to do wrong, maybe it would come out right."

"I understand that," Nick said, with a tiny smile. He pushed another curl behind Greg's ear, and the younger man took deep comfort from this small touch.

"You're not afraid to touch me," Greg noted.

"I never was," Nick replied, his small smile growing.

"About what I said..." Greg began.

"Don't take it back," said Nick, his palm resting on Greg's cheek. "Please don't take it back."

"Do you..." But Greg's mouth couldn't form the words even if it wanted to because sweet, delicate lips had engaged his own, softly touching, chastely daring to boldly ask that underlying question without any words. Greg momentarily forgot to breathe. And just as suddenly as they had come, the lips were gone, but Nick's forehead was resting against his.

"You just kissed me..."

Nick chuckled. "You really have a talent for observation, you know that?"

"Shut up... but I mean... did you really just... What just happened?" He was dazed.

He heard Nick sigh. "I miss you. I miss this."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but we never had... _this_," said Greg. He thought a moment. "Did we? I don't know, Valium, it fucks up my memory."

"No," Nick uttered. "I mean I miss you _acting_ like this. Honest, quirky, and somewhat bemused..."

"Hey, I'm not bemused," said Greg, defensively. "I wouldn't call bemusement a character trait, anyhow. Take it back."

Those lips, those welcome, angelic lips, were pressed against his forehead now. "No," Nick whispered defiantly. His hand moved up, fingers entangling themselves in Greg's curls, gripping his head as he guided it beneath his chin. His arms wrapped around Greg who, despite all his other physical discomforts, felt safer in Nick's arms than he had felt all year. All Greg wanted to do was fall asleep there, but insomnia was setting in. He hoped he didn't vomit all over Nick. That would be mortifying. He tried not to dwell on his nausea, or his headache, or his throbbing muscles. He tried instead to focus on Nick, on his touch, his embrace, his smell... that sweet, musky scent that intoxicated him more than the drugs ever did.

Nick's breathing had changed. Greg noticed in his quest to memorize everything about his friend—his lover—in that moment. It was subtle, but it had become shallower, and it had the slightest hint of a tremor. Greg frowned, and nuzzled his face against Nick's chest. Nick's grip on Greg's head tightened. Something cool slithered down the pillow above Greg's head and gently touched his scalp. That's when he realized that Nick was not OK.

"You don't need to be worried about me anymore," Greg assured him quietly, moving his arms around Nick's torso and holding him as tightly as his sore muscles would allow. "I'll be OK so long as you're here."

"How do you feel?" Nick's voice was barely a whisper as he tried to disguise the distress in his voice.

Greg knew he couldn't tell the truth. "All better. Promise."

"Liar." Nick sniffed. "God, Greg... what are you going to do? You need to enter rehab. You know that, right? They can help you."

There was a moment of tense silence.

"Greg?"

"I know," Greg finally replied. "I just... I don't want to. I don't want that... label, you know? Surrounded by Prozac queens and Xanax teens..." There was another piercing pain in his chest and Greg winced, unable to control himself. He held his breath a moment and let out a whimper when the pain didn't pass.

"What is it, what's wrong?" Nick said quickly, pulling away from Greg and moving his head down so he could look the younger man in the eye. No such luck. Greg's eyes were shut tight.

"Nothing..." Greg tried to say. "Chest pains."

"Again?" Nick sounded nervous. "We need to go—"

"No," Greg insisted. "No, I think it's just all in my head... anxiety and all that... the withdrawal."

"Or you could be having a heart attack," Nick hissed. "Greg, I can't lose you. Not when I just found you again."

"You won't lose me," Greg insisted. "If I have to, I'll stay around by sheer strength of will."

Nick was quiet, but he gripped Greg's shoulders tightly. Finally, he said, "Greg, I know you don't want to go to the hospital, but understand that I am terrified for you right now. I can't do everything. I can't make you better. It would mean a lot to me if you just let me take you to the hospital. Please, Greg."

Greg stared at Nick's eyes, trying to delve as deep into them as he possibly could, trying to make him understand what going to the hospital would mean to him. "Nick, there's something I have to tell you."

Nick's expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to shift. "You aren't just doing Valium and marijuana, are you?"

Greg's mouth went dry. "Well..."

Nick closed his eyes and moved his chin towards his chest. "Jesus, Greg..."

"But that's not what I wanted to tell you," Greg said hastily, then winced at how the phrase sounded.

Nick's eyes snapped open. "How many secrets do you have, Greg?"

His stomach lurched and he felt his skin began to crawl. "OK, look, there was this... tea that Camellia would sell me—"

"_She_ was your dealer?" Nick interjected.

Greg sighed. "Yes, she was my dealer." And then, he reached up, placing a hand on Nick's cheek and added, pointedly, "And _nothing_ more. Now would you let me finish?"

Nick's eyes were glossy as he nodded.

"OK... So there was this tea. I do not know what was in it, other than shrooms—"

"_Mushrooms_, Greg?" Nick gasped.

"Can I finish?!" Greg cried. "You don't have to worry about that anyway, Grissom confiscated it... It's kind of why I was fired..."

"Oh, Greg..." Nick whispered.

"Don't... talk. I can't stand to hear the... disappointment in your voice. Listen, the thing I wanted to tell you... It's about why I'm scared to go to the hospital."

Nick nodded, encouraging. "I'm listening."

But Greg held his breath. "Will you still want to be here, with me, after I tell you?"

"I told you, Greg. You will never be without me."

But Greg was more nervous about this than anything else. "Two weeks ago, I drank some tea and... had sex with Camellia." Nick's reassuring smile faltered slightly, but Greg pressed on. "It meant absolutely nothing. I was so strung out and I wasn't even sure what was going on. But—" He flinched as the pain invaded his chest again, and he imagined he was inhaling fire. He couldn't help emitting a gasp and the tears leaked from his eyes as he clenched his teeth, trying to ride it out. By the time it has passed, he was gasping for breath, and there were hot tear streaks down his cheeks. He had curled in on himself, and Nick's arms were wrapped securely around him as he shuddered.

He let out a whimpering sob. "Oh God, I am so stupid..." He let the tears fall again as he gasped for air, his lungs aching, and the sobbing only seemed to aggravate his sore chest. Nick was stroking his back and holding on tightly. "I'm sick, I'm so sick, I know I am... Nick..."

"Then let me take you to the hospital. _Please_, Greg. Do it for me."

With another sob, Greg finally agreed. "Yes... yes, fine, OK, take me there, but don't hate me afterwards."

Nick's hand climbed into Greg's hair again and pressed his face into the corner of his neck and shoulder. "I could never hate you. Not for anything."

"For this you might," Greg whimpered, shivering.

He felt Nick shake his head. "Not for anything," he repeated. He sat up on the bed, taking Greg with him. The younger man's hands slid around Nick's waist, his palms pressed flat on the Texan's back as he shivered. Breathing was suddenly painful and unwelcome. Nick slowly slid his own arm beneath Greg's knees again and stumbled off of the bed and onto his feet. He moved through the bedroom door and Greg's apartment, wavering slightly, until they reached the hall, and then the elevator. Nick waited for a moment until it came, and moved slowly inside. He leaned against the wall of the elevator.

He was breathing heavily, and Greg was clinging to his neck. His knees went weak and he slid to the floor, cradling Greg in his lap as the elevator descended and he stared at it with wide eyes.

And the elevator continued to fall.


	17. Off Again On Again

_**Author's Note:**_ OK, I know it's been nearly a week since my last update. The good news is, I'm almost done. Sorry you had to wait so long. Will have the next chapter up ASAP. Promise. :o). Thanks for your patience, and for sticking with this story.

* * *

"Take a deep breath."

Greg obliged.

"Exhale."

Greg obeyed.

"How does that feel?"

"Harsh," Greg replied.

"Mm hm." The doctor nodded and withdrew the stethoscope.

Greg squinted at the bright light. "Could you turn off the fluorescents? They're giving me a headache."

The doctor paused, but moved towards the door and hit the lights, until only one of them was on. "Your cardiac exams came back normal. Rhythm is a little high, just south of Tachycardia, but that's not causing the chest pains. My guess is that this is probably costochondritis."

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "Gazoontite."

The doctor's lips twitched. "Have you been in any fights recently, or an accident that may have caused trauma to your chest?"

"Um..." Greg tried to think.

"Maybe excessive vomiting, coughing, or even laughing?"

"I don't laugh that often anymore," Greg replied.

"Have you inhaled anything that might be harmful to your lungs? Even cigarette smoke?"

Greg bit his lip. "Plaster dust."

"Ah," said the doctor. "That might be it."

"So what does that mean?"

The doctor smiled. "It means you'll be fine. Your costal cartilages are inflamed, but the swelling should go down. Just go easy on the breathing. It'll pass. But you do not look very good at all, and I'm worried about your unusually high heart rate. You're clammy and anxious... Maybe you should stay for a full physical. I feel like I'm missing something with you."

Greg was beyond nervous. His knees were bouncing up and down as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "Doc... what are the lasting adverse effects of longtime Valium abuse on the body?"

The doctor's eyebrows rose with interest. "I see..."

"What should I be worried about with the... you know... withdrawal symptoms?"

The doctor nodded. "Well, the withdrawal syndrome has been compared to symptoms of heroin and barbiturate withdrawal."

Greg's eyes watered as panic swelled in his chest. "Do you have anything that would help with... that?"

"My best suggestion is to wean off the drugs. Decrease the doses. It's the smoothest way to break dependence on benzodiazepines."

Greg shook his head and rubbed his arms, his stomach churning. "No, I've tried that, even five milligrams less my body freaks out. Tell me something else. _Give_ me something else. _Please_."

"How long were you using the drug?" The doctor asked.

"Maybe three months."

The doctor let out a low whistle. "No, you can not just go cold turkey on this, Greg. Not if you've been using it for that long."

"Why not?" Greg asked. He flinched as a strange electric sensation tingled over his skin. He wondered if he was near an outlet. He was drenched in sweat. Was it dangerous for him to be sitting there?

The doctor sighed. "Greg, if you don't taper off the drug, you are in for serious life threatening withdrawal symptoms. What have you been experiencing?"

"Chills, fever, headache, nausea, photophobia, anxiety..."

"And when was your last dose?" The doctor asked.

"Dunno, maybe eighteen hours ago?" Greg guessed.

The doctor shook his head. "Eighteen hours and you're already experiencing these symptoms? If you don't take another dose in the next six hours, you're in for convulsions, tremors, maybe a coma, not to mention the severe dysphoria, catatonia, mania and psychosis! I am _very_ glad you had these chest pains, Greg, because if you really intended on going through with this, it could have killed you."

Greg was startled, thoughts of electrocution far away from him as the fear engulfed him completely. "I thought I knew enough about this... but I didn't know all that."

The doctor chewed on his lip. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Wait," Greg called anxiously, as the doctor was about to leave. "You, um... took my blood, right?"

"That's right."

"Would you... do an HIV test for me?"

The doctor paused. He turned and gave Greg a serious look. "When were you exposed to the virus?"

"Maybe two weeks ago," said Greg.

"You know that the results may not be conclusive," said the doctor. "If it comes back negative, that may not mean you don't have it."

"I know," said Greg. "But just do it. It'll make me feel better, if only for a little bit. And if it does come back positive, then... Well, then I'll know. And it's better to know. Isn't it?"

The doctor gave him an apologetic smile and nodded. And without another word, he left, and Greg was alone in the dark, sitting on the exam table kicking his legs back and forth. He could feel the dysphoria creeping on the horizon. He had made a terrible mistake. The electric sensation on his skin was driving him insane and he wanted to rip out his hair. Taking a deep breath, which hurt his chest, he raked his hands into his hair and clenched them into fists. The urge to break down was overwhelming and his chest constricted as the tears spilled out of his eyes. He tried to control himself, but it was dark, and Nick wasn't there and he was scared.

Catatonia, mania, psychosis...

Greg was going crazy. After the doctor mentioned it, it all made sense. Nothing was right anymore. Nothing could be right, not ever. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to gain comfort from them.

He would never beat this. He wasn't strong enough. Why was he even trying?

* * *

"Excuse me, Doctor?" Nick called as he saw the man that had called Greg's name walking down the hall. The doctor stopped and Nick caught up with him. "My name is Nick Stokes, I brought in Greg Sanders?"

"Oh. Yes, of course," said the doctor. "My name is Dr. Finn. Are you family?"

"For the sake of mercy, pretend that I am," Nick begged. "I'm the closest he's got."

The doctor nodded. "He's doing OK. It's good that you brought him here."

"Why? What's wrong?" Nick said quickly, nervously.

"Nothing, after he takes some medication," said Dr. Finn.

Nick caught sight of the label. "Doctor, you can't give him that! He's an addict!"

"Yes, I know," said the doctor. "Which is precisely why I _must_ give it to him. Or it'll cost him his life. Here's an extra copy of the Ashton Manual for you. It's all about how to successfully and healthily withdraw from benzodiazepines. I am also recommending a withdrawal clinic for him. Can you take him there?"

"Of course," Nick said, nodding quickly. "Yes, anything to get him back to normal."

"Good." He handed Nick another pamphlet. "You can take him when we're done with him here. He needs serious help."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Nick.

The doctor held his breath. "Please, take no offense when I ask this, but are you and Greg sexually active?"

Nick blinked and smiled, confused. "Yes, we both are, but I don't understand what my love life has to do with Greg."

"No, no, no, I mean... Were you ever intimate with each other?" the doctor clarified.

Nick's smile faded. "What does that have to do with anything?"

The doctor nodded. "I'm not judging. I was just wondering if, while you're here, you'd want to have a blood test also."

"Get tested?" He was confused. "Wait, get tested for what?"

The doctor inhaled sharply. "Oh no. Oh, I'm sorry, I just assumed that he..." He closed his eyes and silently reprimanded himself. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I forgot myself."

"What did you forget?" Nick pressed.

"I can't say anymore," said the doctor, starting off down the hall again. "Confidentiality. You understand."

"Wait, what do you want me to get tested for?" Nick asked. "This isn't just about him anymore, it's suddenly about me, too!"

The doctor picked up the pace but Nick followed, determined. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to talk to him about it." They came to a door and the doctor stopped. "Look, you're going to have to go back to the waiting room. He'll be out in a minute, I promise."

"Please don't give him those pills," Nick begged. "They ruined him."

"Mr. Stokes, believe me when I tell you that at this stage, he's better off with a dose of Valium in his system than without," said Dr. Finn. "He can't just be cut off completely, or it will _really_ ruin him. Now if you would just go to the waiting room..."

He opened the door to the room and there was a crash and he closed it swiftly.

"What was that?" Nick demanded.

Dr. Finn glanced at Nick. "Maybe you should stay."

"Why? What's going on?"

Dr. Finn sighed. "Paranoia is a symptom of the withdrawal," he explained. "When I mentioned a few other psychological symptoms, I may have inadvertently... triggered them."

"What are you saying, exactly?" Nick asked, slowly.

The doctor did not respond with words, but instead opened the door. Both of them entered to see Greg in the corner, watching them with wide pupils. He leapt to his feet and brandished a metal instrument at Nick and Dr. Finn.

"Come any closer and I'll stab you with this scalpel!"

"Greg, that's a spoon," said Dr. Finn slowly.

Greg stopped and examined the item in his hand. "So it is. Would you look at that?"

"Greg, calm down," Dr. Finn said. "You're acting out because you're scared."

"Scared?" Greg said, trembling, and as he stepped under the only florescent light on in the room. Nick saw his pallid features, his sweat drenched skin, and how thin he looked for the first time. "I'm fucking petrified," Greg whispered. He pursed his lips and shook his head, visibly distressed. "Doc, what's going to happen to me?"

"Nothing, if you take this right now," said Dr. Finn, pouring two pills onto his hand and handing them to Greg.

The young man looked down at the tiny pills in his sweaty palm. "This isn't even _half_ my normal dose," he told the doctor.

"OK..." Dr. Finn said slowly, tapping an extra pill out onto his hand and giving it to Greg.

"Not even close," Greg replied.

"How many do you normally take?" asked the doctor.

"Fistfuls," Greg replied.

Dr. Finn sighed. "Take four, then. It's bound to be enough to tide you over until tomorrow."

"Will it get rid of the withdrawal symptoms?" Greg asked, desperately.

"No," Dr. Finn admitted. "But it'll keep you alive. Probably no psychosis, convulsions or catatonia."

"Will the depression stick around?" Greg asked. "The nausea, the chills, the... fear?"

"Greg..." Nick began, empathically, and Greg's eyes flickered over to the Texan.

"What is he doing here?" he demanded. "What are you planning?"

"I thought it would be better if Nick were here to calm you down," said Dr. Finn. "You are visibly distressed."

"You were talking about me, weren't you?" Greg whispered, clinging to his spoon. "Outside, in the hall? What did you say?"

"Nothing!" Nick cried. "Greg, I just want to make sure you're OK."

Greg nodded vigorously, seemingly quite confused. "OK... yeah, right, of course, I know that... I just... I don't know what to think anymore."

"Just take the dose, Greg, and these feelings should subside," said the doctor.

Greg scoffed. "Right. They'll go away, but I'll be dependent on them again, and it'll wreak havoc with my memory and everything and soon enough, I won't remember Nick's name! Is that what you want?"

"Greg, do you know what you're experiencing right now?" Dr. Finn asked, slowly.

"I don't know, Doc, why don't you tell me? Let's see, is it the psychosis? The mania? Am I crazy, is that what you're saying? You want me hooked on the drugs. You want me hooked so I'll buy more and you'll benefit from it. Switch from an illegal dealer to a legal one, and then the government will get paid for it, too. The government! Oh man, don't get me started on the _government_!"

"Greg, take the pills," Dr. Finn ordered. "It will quell this paranoia you're experiencing."

Greg looked down at his clenched fist. "What if they just make things worse?" he whispered.

Dr. Finn looked pointedly at Nick, who took the hint and stepped forward. "Greg..."

The younger man looked up at the Texan with wide eyes. After a moment he shook his head. "I don't know what's going on anymore, Nicky. My mind is playing tricks on me."

Nick hushed him as he slowly approached. Greg took a step backwards but said nothing. Nick hesitated, and then continued. "You know you can trust me, right?"

Greg tensed, then nodded, a half-stifled sob escaping his lips. "You're the only one I trust," he told Nick, for the second time that night.

"Then Greg, take the pills," Nick said slowly, pointedly.

Greg swallowed. "Nick..."

Nick was close enough now that he took Greg's wrists. They were small and slippery in his grip. "You're so cold."

Greg shuddered and slowly raised his closed fist to his mouth, popping the pills inside. The doctor immediately walked over, bearing a glass of water, which Greg took and drank.

"The clinic is not far from here," said Dr. Finn to Nick. "If you would take him and check him in, they will take it from there—"

"Not today," Greg begged. "I'll go tomorrow, but not today. I just..." He glanced up at Nick. "I just want to fall asleep with you. Just once. That's all. And then I'll go."

"Greg, you're procrastinating," Dr. Finn noted.

"Shut up," Greg snapped. "This is my decision, isn't it?" He turned back to Nick, who was still holding onto his wrist. He maneuvered his hand so their fingers intertwined. "Or maybe it's his."

"I can take him for tonight," Nick said quietly, watching Greg intently. "And in the morning, I'll take him to the clinic."

Greg sniffed, then nodded. Dr. Finn sighed.

"Well... I suppose that will be fine," he said. "If he starts showing intense withdrawal symptoms, give him another dose, but only four pills. Tell the clinic how much he's taking now, and they'll do the rest."

"Yes, doctor," said Nick. "Come on, Greg. Let's take you home."

Nick's arm slid around Greg's shoulders, and he led the younger man towards the door. He grabbed Greg's shirt from off a nearby chair and headed out of the room.

Greg winced as the lights hit his eyes and Nick hushed him again, pulling him closer, and Greg buried his face in Nick's shoulder. "It's too bright."

"Sh..." Nick breathed into his hair. "Hush, it'll be OK. Now come on."

He began to lead Greg down the hall and to the elevator, where he fumbled and hit what he thought was the parking level button. He was distracted by how frail Greg felt in his grip. The younger man wasn't saying much as he hung his head, and Nick knew that the Valium was beginning to kick in. Greg was already becoming more subdued.

Nick stared at him. He couldn't help it. And he wasn't staring at Greg for the usual reasons he stared at Greg. The doctor had said that at this point, Greg would die without the Valium. If they _hadn't_ come to the hospital, if Nick had given in to Greg's will, then he could have lost his best friend. And it was so difficult to resist Greg, even when Nick knew what was best for him. Just as now, Nick _knew_ it would be better to leave him at the clinic, and in Greg's passive state, it would be easy to drive him to the clinic and leave him with professionals. But he knew that Greg would see that as a betrayal, no matter how good Nick's intentions were. And all he was asking for was one night. One night with Nick. And Nick couldn't refuse him that, especially as that was all Nick wanted, too.

The doors to the elevator opened and Nick stumbled out, lost inside his head, with Greg staggering out with him. It was only after the doors closed behind him that Nick realized they were on the emergency room floor by the admit desk. Groaning, he turned around and punched the button again. While he waited, supporting the majority of Greg's weight at this point, he glanced around and his breath hitched in his throat when he saw a familiar blonde head asleep and sprawled over three chairs.

_What is _she_ doing here?_

His mouth half-open, he looked from Greg, to Catherine, and then the elevator came.

"Greg?" Nick whispered.

"Hm?" Greg replied.

"I'm going to take you back to my car, OK? Will you be alright down there for a sec? I have to check on something."

"Uh huh," Greg answered.

The elevator arrived and Nick pulled Greg back in and made sure to hit the parking level this time. He laboriously led a dazed Greg over to his Tahoe and helped him climb up into the passenger's seat. He looked at him with a pointed gaze. "I'll be _right back_," he promised. "Don't do anything stupid, OK?"

"No stupid," Greg muttered with a nod. "Got it."

Nick nervously but carefully closed the door to the car. Greg leaned his head against the window and Nick took a few steps backwards, still watching him. He locked the car, hoping that Greg wouldn't try to get out, but that if he did, he would be too sedated to figure out how to unlock it. And then, he jogged back toward the elevator and took it back up to the ER.

Catherine hadn't moved in the few minutes he'd been gone. He quietly moved towards her and kneeled in front of her, hoping against hope that nothing had happened to Lindsey. He couldn't think of any other reason the woman would be here, instead of at home. It was almost time for their shift to start, and if Grissom was down Nick, Greg _and_ Catherine, then all he had left was Riley.

"Hey," Nick said, but the woman did not stir. "Catherine. Wake up." He softy touched her shoulder and her eyes fluttered. She seemed surprised to see him.

"Nicky... What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," said Nick. "Is Lindsey OK?"

Catherine frowned. "Lindsey?"

"I just assumed that she was the reason you'd be here," Nick explained.

Catherine yawned. "Oh, no. I've been here since this morning, waiting for a victim to wake up."

"Couldn't you have gone home and asked them to page you?"

"That's what Brass did," Catherine replied, "but I wanted to talk to her myself. Grissom has forbidden me from calling Greg, so..."

"Why do you want to call Greg?"

"He was at our crime scene," said Catherine. "He called it in. I heard the 911 tape."

Whatever color was left in Nick's cheeks vanished. "What was he doing there?"

"I don't know," Catherine admitted with a shrug. "That's why I need to ask the victim. Ana Peréz." Catherine yawned. "I've forgotten how hard it is to sleep in waiting rooms."

"Ms. Willows?" someone called, and both Nick and Catherine looked up. "Miss Peréz is awake now and ready to speak with you."

Catherine smiled at the nurse and thanked her. She sat up and stretched before getting to her feet.

"Cath, do you mind if I..."

He didn't finish and she blinked at him. After a moment, she smiled. "Sure. You can come along."

He followed her down the hall. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. Nick had no doubt that she had been there before, watching the victim sleep. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Greg was at a crime scene. Had it been a drug bust? Would this mean further trouble for him? Nick's stomach twisted at the thought.

Catherine opened the door to the room and stepped inside, followed by Nick. The woman in the bed was bruised, and had a bandage wrapped around her head. She slowly turned until she was facing the two of them.

Nick's jaw almost dropped to the floor.

"Camellia."


	18. Tainted

_**Author's Note:**_ This is almost done. Keep an eye out for my halloween special which is coming after this story is done posting.

* * *

The woman in the bed blinked a moment. And then, her expression morphed into one of recognition.

"Oh dammit, not you," she groaned.

Catherine seemed baffled as she looked from Nick to Camellia. "Have you two met before?"

Camellia turned away as Nick tried to keep his temper in check. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he clenched his jaw, his fingers itching to get a grip on Camellia's throat.

"What was Greg doing at _your_ house again?" Nick demanded coolly through his gritted teeth.

"Saving my life," Camellia returned. "The doctors said that if he hadn't called the paramedics, the trauma could have killed me."

"But what was he _doing_ there?" Nick hissed.

"Nick, this is _my_ victim, would you let _me_ conduct this interview?" Catherine asked, sounding shocked at Nick's behavior.

"Catherine, why don't you go call Brass," Nick whispered. "I need to have a word with this woman."

Catherine exhaled sharply, knowing she did not have the legal capacity to take this woman's statement _without_ Brass, and so she nodded. "You have five minutes, but then I'm coming back, and you're going to tell me what the hell is going on."

Neither Nick nor Camellia spoke upon Catherine's exit. They each just took a moment to stare at each other. But Camellia seemed exceptionally uncomfortable with the silence. "What do you want me to say, huh?"

"An apology would be nice, first of all," Nick suggested.

"Apologize for what?" Camellia returned. "If you are jealous—"

Nick interrupted her with a barking laugh. "Jealous? Of who, of you? No. No, I could never be jealous of you. You're too pathetic. No, I want an apology on Greg's behalf. It's all _your_ fault that he's all messed up the way he is now. It's your fault that he's an addict, and that he's scared, and that he's just… so sick and if you had never—"

"If I had never what, cariño?" Camellia retorted sharply. "If I had never _let_ him blackmail me and take my pills? If I had never answered the phone when he called me, begging for more? If I had never answered the door when he walked into my house of _his own free will_ and sat down to relax a little bit? I think, sugar, that you should remember that while you point that crooked little finger at me, there are three more pointing right back at you."

Nick scoffed, but he was unnerved. "What are you talking about?"

"Why do you think he turned to the pills in the first place, cariño?" Camellia whispered. "Why do you think he could only turn to me? He _hated_ his life. He hated the people in it—"

"That's a lie," Nick hissed through gritted teeth. "Don't lie there and tell me that he…" But Nick wavered. "Don't say that. You're lying. Greg doesn't have the heart to hate anything or… or anyone."

She smirked wickedly. "You don't know him as well as I do, do you?" she asked. "You see the person that he wants to be. Stoic, strong, content… But I see him as the person he is, when he calls my number, and knocks on my door, stumbles in and asks for anything to take away the pain—"

"Shut up," Nick interjected. "Just… shut _up_. You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Camellia retorted. "I have seen him at his worst, cariño—"

"Yeah, well, so have I!" Nick shouted back. "You can't tell me that you've seen him at his worst when you haven't held him as he trembled from withdrawal and _begged_ you not to take him to the hospital. You can't tell me you know him when you haven't seen the fear in his eyes when the doctor told him the truth of what's happening to him. And don't you even _try_ to tell me that that person _I_ see, the strong, smart and yet sometimes very vulnerable man, is not the real Greg Sanders. Now what the _hell_ was he doing at your crime scene?"

Camellia was finally silent as she stared at Nick, her lower lip protruding slightly. She closed her eyes and turned away. "I don't have to tell you that."

"You better believe you're going to tell Catherine," Nick hissed. "So you might as well tell me, too."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Camellia spat, strangely bitter.

"Because he's too out of his mind to say anything coherent," Nick returned. "Look, the doctors said that if he doesn't wean himself off the drugs, the withdrawal could kill him. So he's doped up on twenty mils right now. So _you're_ going to tell me. You got that? Cariña?"

The door opened and Catherine strode in, putting her phone away. Nick growled agitatedly, but Catherine shot him a glare that could turn Medusa to stone, so he quieted quickly. The older CSI turned instead to Camellia.

"Miss Peréz," Catherine began coldly. "What were you doing when the car drove into the wall?"

Camellia's eyes were moist as she watched Catherine, and a slick tongue slipped out to lick her chapped lips. "I was talking to… Greg."

Catherine swallowed and blinked. "What were the two of you discussing?"

"It's not important," said Camellia.

"It's important to me," Nick growled.

"We could have been talking about Mickey Mouse for all it matters," Camellia snapped. "Bastard _still_ would have driven a car through my house either way, wouldn't he have?"

"There is a possibility that he wasn't targeting you…" Catherine said slowly.

"You think Lyle would call _Greg_ a cunt, do you?" Camellia retorted.

Catherine pursed her lips. "I'm just trying to keep an open mind here, Miss Peréz."

"Lyle hated me," Camellia said with a sigh. "He ran his car into my house, probably _waiting_ for me to walk by that window so he'd be sure to hit me."

"Why did he hate you?" Catherine asked.

"Maybe for the same reason Greg hates me," Camellia answered. Nick was confused to hear a tinge of self-loathing in her voice. If she were anyone else, and if Greg weren't involved, Nick would have almost felt sorry for her.

"That's not answering my question, Miss Peréz," Catherine pointed out.

Camellia looked away. "I'm tired. Can we do this later?"

"Look, I have a very sick man half-conscious in my car right now," Nick snapped, just about at the breaking point. He ignored Catherine's surprised expression as he ploughed on, not caring anymore what he said or who he hurt. "I need to know the reason he got this way. I need to know what the hell you said to him, what lie you fed him to make him think that—"

"I'm sorry he's sick!" Camellia finally burst out, loud and shrill enough to shatter glass. The tears were streaking down her face. "I never meant to hurt him, I didn't mean to give it to him, it was an accident, I didn't lie, I didn't tell him anything, I couldn't have _lied_ because I didn't know, alright? At the time I didn't _know_, I didn't _know_…" She burst into inconsolable sobs, pulling her legs up beneath the hospital sheets and leaned her forehead against her knees.

Catherine immediately turned on her friend. "What the hell is the matter with you?! This interview is about a _case_, not about Greg!"

"Your interview may be about a case, but I have my own questions for this woman, OK?" Nick returned. "And you should too, Catherine! My God, if you could _see_ Greg right now…"

"He's with you," Catherine stated frankly. "Greg is with you and you didn't think to _tell_ me about this before coming in here with me?" She blanched and her fingers flew to her face. "Oh God… he's why you're here, isn't he? Tell me what's wrong, Nicky. What's going on?"

There was a knock on the door and then Brass entered, looking aghast and annoyed as he stared at his sobbing witness and the two CSIs. "Catherine, I told you to start without me, but I didn't tell you to reduce the woman to tears!"

"You can blame Nick for that," Catherine said. "He starts in on her about what she did to Greg and the next thing I know she's babbling about how she didn't know—"

"I_ didn't_!" Camellia insisted through clenched teeth. She looked up at them with a swollen, tear-stained face, but her gaze was fierce. "I swear I didn't know."

"What exactly is it that you didn't know?" Brass asked.

"That I'm sick," Camellia replied. "I swear I didn't know. But I didn't think it mattered anyway because we used a _fucking condom_ so…"

Nick's knees went weak and he stumbled backwards. He wrapped his arms around himself and stared at Camellia in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You said he's sick too!" Camellia returned. "You just said it! But I didn't know, I didn't _mean_ to—"

"I _meant_ sick with withdrawal…" Nick uttered, his jaw hanging slackly. "I _meant_ that you sold him the…" His stomach gurgled inside and let out a groaning sound as he suppressed his gag reflex. "What the _fuck_ did you _give_ him you bitch!" Nick suddenly burst out, launching himself madly at the woman in the hospital bed. He felt two pairs of arms encircle him. One pair was burly and unforgiving while the other was slim but very strong. Both of them threw Nick back, away from Camellia, and the Texan fell into a chair by the door, gasping for breath, his furious eyes unable to leave the damaged girl in the hospital bed.

"Catherine!" Brass barked demandingly. "Would you _please_ take him outside while I finish this interview!"

Catherine nodded, her lips thin, as she gripped Nick's wrist and pulled him to his feet, dragging him out the door even as he chomped at the bit to get another chance at Camellia.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Catherine demanded.

"Greg. Greg is what's the matter with me, Catherine," Nick returned. "I just can't…" He put his hand over his eyes and then ran it through his greasy hair. "Jesus, Catherine, if you could just _see_ him—"

"Then show him to me," Catherine returned, her blue eyes frigid.

The hand in his hair stopped as he took her in. It was a casual stance, her weight on her left foot as her hand rested on her hip. Her eyes were locked with his and her lips were straight. Not even a hair on her head moved. Catherine always had an attitude about her, but this was different. She rarely used this gaze on anyone that wasn't a murder suspect. But Nick knew that she was deathly serious.

Slowly, he nodded. "OK," he said. "OK."

* * *

The door opened, jarring Greg abruptly from his sleep and he jolted. Sleep hung heavily on his eyelashes. Nick couldn't have been gone longer than twenty seconds... Unless Greg had actually fallen asleep, which in all actuality could have happened. For all Greg knew, it could have been twenty seconds or twenty hours later.

The Texan climbed into the car without a word to Greg and turned the key in the ignition. The younger CSI blinked at him.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Funny question for you to be asking _me_," Nick mumbled as he put the car in reverse. He looked over his shoulder as he backed up.

"You're different," Greg noted. "What happened? Where did you go?"

"Upstairs."

"Where upstairs?" Greg asked.

"Back into the hospital."

"Why?"

"Don't talk to me, Greg," Nick sighed, then pursed his lips, staring straight ahead out of the windshield as he made his way out of the parking garage.

Greg's heart rate increased as he stared at Nick in silence. "What's wrong? What'd I do?"

Nick said nothing as they pulled out of the garage and into the night. Greg was blinded by streetlamps and neon. He closed his eyes tightly and moved closer to the door, further away from Nick. He tried to maneuver his head into a comfortable position against the cold window. The glass was icy against his cheek.

"I'm gonna be straight with you," Nick finally said after a few more blocks. "I'm taking you to the clinic."

"What?!" Greg exclaimed, his voice cracking. "No, no, no, you _promised_, Nick, I can't—I can't _deal_ with that yet, no, I need you, I need _you_, Nick—"

"I'm only telling you," Nick began, "as a courtesy. Something you neglected to do for me."

Greg began to panic. "What are you talking about?"

Nick shook his head as they came to a stoplight, but seemed too stunned to speak.

"Nick, tell me what's going on!" Greg demanded, desperately.

"You want me to tell you what's going on, Greg?" Nick returned, furiously. "I talked to your doctor back there and do you want to know what he asked me? If I wanted to get _tested_. For HIV. Why do you think he'd ask me that, Greg?"

Greg's heart lurched as icy tendrils constricted around his throat. "Nick... Nick, I was gonna tell you, I swear..."

"Don't even try, Greg," Nick spat. "You know why this happened, don't you?"

"Yes!" Greg half-sobbed. "Yes, God yes, it's because I'm a moron, a stupid naive little kid who got into a bad situation and—"

"It's because you're disgusting," Nick interrupted coldly. "You think it's just _recently_ that you suddenly became stupid, Greg? You're whole life is a _joke_. Everything about you is... tainted. And I want nothing to do with you."

There was a rapping on the window and something cut across the darkness of Greg's consciousness. His eyes fluttered open to see Nick casting him a concerned expression through the glass. His heart was still racing ahead of him as he immediately turned to look at the driver's side and found it vacant. He also noticed that they were still in the garage, beneath the hospital. They hadn't driven anywhere. Nick didn't know anything about Greg's possible illness. It had all been a dream... And yet it had been so vivid, Greg had been convinced that it was actually happening. He turned back to look out the window again as his vision focused and Nick opened his door.

"Greg?" the older man called tentatively.

Greg's throat was too dry and constricted for speech so he simply nodded his understanding. There was a sharp intake of breath and he blinked in time to see a blur of blonde hair. Minutes later, cool hands were on either side of his face, thumbs running across his cheekbones, pushing his hair back, even pulling at the skin around his eyes. He blinked a little more rapidly as his pupils shrank and he made out the distinctive form of Catherine Willows.

"My God, what's happening to you?" she breathed, and the next minute he was in her arms, her chin was on his shoulder, but his own arms were too heavy to return the embrace, and he was still too discombobulated to say anything worthwhile.

"Talk to me, Greg. Are you OK?"

"Mm..." Greg tried, but it was all he could do.

"He's drugged up right now, Cath, you won't get much out of him. I'm not sure if he's even completely aware that we're even here at all."

That wasn't true. Greg was very aware, painfully aware, if only he could reassure them...

"I..." But he lost his train of thought. It didn't matter if they were there or not. Everything was just too much effort.

"What's going on, Nick? You know something I don't, so spill."

"Greg is having a few... problems. But he's working them out. I'm helping him, and there's a clinic—"

"Clinic, what sort of clinic?"

"Catherine..."

"Nick!"

It was as if Greg wasn't even there. His eyes moved from one of his friends to the other as they spoke. But Nick's eyes remained on Greg.

"Greg is really sick, Catherine."

"I know, that's what Ana Peréz said, but you won't tell me with _what_!"

Nick was silent for a few seconds. But Catherine was impatient.

"Nicky!"

"I know what she said, alright, but I don't think she meant it in the same way I do. I don't... I don't _know_ how she meant it, he won't tell me, the doctor won't tell me either, OK, but all I know is that it's probably transmitted..." His face flushed red and he ran a hand through his hair. "Aw, Jesus, Catherine, do we have to talk about—"

"Nick, we lost Sara to California, and Warrick to... We've lost Warrick. We neglected Warrick, there had to be more that we could have done and I don't want—"

"Catherine, please—"

"OK, then I'll ask Greg myself." She whirled around, her hair flying off her shoulders as she turned and shot daggers at the young, drugged up CSI. Her expression softened as she reached out and took Greg's hand, sandwiching it between her own. "Greg... sweetie... can you hear me?"

Greg managed a nod, but knew that his face most likely wore the most vacant expression she had ever seen, because her brow furrowed in doubt. She squeezed his hand harder. "What's going on with you, huh? Are you sick? What's the matter, honey, what are you sick with?"

"Catherine, it's not just—"

"You shut up if you won't talk to me," she snapped shrilly. She turned back to Greg and tried to smile even as a single tear escaped her eye. "Do you remember... We're family. Right? You know how much what you do effects us. Right? You understand that, don't you?"

Greg nodded again.

"If our roles were reversed," Catherine continued. "You would want to know, and I would tell you. So tell me, Greg. What's wrong?"

Greg's eyes moved lazily over to the Texan, who was standing with folded arms and a set expression. "Nick..." he choked, making the older man look up. He closed his eyes and nodded his head at Catherine, before yawning.

"What's that mean, G?"

"I think it means he wants you to tell me..." Catherine said slowly, turning from one of her friends to the other.

"Is that what you want, Greg?" Nick asked, his voice only a whisper but echoing in the space of the garage.

Again, Greg nodded, then leaned his head wearily against the door frame.

"Greg has a Valium problem," Nick explained matter-of-factly to Catherine. "But he knows it. He's getting help. Right now."

"From this clinic you were talking about?"

"Yes."

"Is that all?"

"It's all I know."

"So... what did Ana Peréz mean when she said..."

"I don't know."

Greg closed his eyes tightly. "Camellia..."

Nick looked up. "Yes, Greg. Camellia."

"Nick..." He wanted to tell them. He needed them to know. If he had the virus, they would find out sooner or later. And even if he didn't have it, they would eventually find out Camellia was HIV positive and connect the dots. He groaned. His dream flashed inside his mind. So vivid, so sharp. He could still hear Nick's bitter words. "_I want nothing to do with you._"

"Catherine," Nick said quietly. "I'm going to take him now. Why don't you go upstairs and talk to Brass. You're on right now, aren't you?"

Slowly, Catherine nodded. "Take good care of him, would you Nicky?" she whispered.

"You know I will."

Her heals clicked on the concrete as she walked away towards the elevator. Nick closed the door to Greg's side, leaving the younger man in silence a moment, before he opened the other door and got in the car. He turned the keys in the ignition, saying nothing to Greg, who had an unhinging sense of déjà vu.

He swallowed to open his throat. It didn't help much, but he tried to speak. "Where're we... where we goin'?"

Nick blinked and looked at him, his hands on the wheel. He seemed surprised that Greg was coherent enough to construct a sentence. "Where do you want to go?"

"So long's I'm with you..." Greg began, his mind trailing off into silence. He shrugged. "Don't care."

Nick pursed his lips as he continued to look at Greg. He reached out and squeezed a hand on his lap. "I'm going to take care of you, Greggo," he promised. "OK?"

Greg somehow managed a smile. "Kay."

* * *


	19. The Clinic

_**Author's Note:**_ Sorry this is taking so long. School is catching up with me. One more chapter to go after this, where some of your hanging questions will be answered, cross my heart.

ooo

Greg wasn't sure how, but eventually he ended up lying on Nick's bed, staring at the ceiling. The dose of Valium was enough to keep him sedated, but not enough to allow him to fall into unconsciousness. He was very conscious of the fact that Nick wasn't lying beside him. He had forgotten where his friend had gone. He knew Nick had told him, but he couldn't remember what he had said. He hated the drugs. He hated the disappointed look in Nick's eyes every time the Texan looked at him.

And then, the bedroom door opened, and Greg took great pains to turn his head and see Nick standing there, holding a washcloth in one hand and a bottle of Valium in the other. He placed them both on the end table on his side.

"I'm scared, Nicky," Greg breathed.

Nick nodded. "Me too, G." He climbed onto the bed quietly and moved towards Greg, who couldn't move. The older man's hand reached out and began stroking Greg's curls. Greg closed his eyes.

"What if I don't get better?"

"You will," Nick assured him in soothing tones. "I know you. You want to get better, don't you?"

"So badly..."

"Then you will," Nick said, confidently. He continued to stroke Greg's hair, tenderly, reassuringly, a constant reminder that he was there, with him. "If you want it, then you will."

"I don't think it's that simple," Greg whispered, blinking at Nick.

The Texan smiled, but his eyes were sad. His hand moved down from his hair and around to cup Greg's cheek. His thumb moved across Greg's lips and back again, as if mapping them for future reference. "I don't believe that. I think that if you want it badly enough, if you try hard enough, then you can do this. I believe in _you_, Greg. And I know you're stronger than this."

"But what if I'm not?" Greg pressed. "What if... what if there's more to it?"

Nick sighed. "Greg..."

"No, seriously," Greg insisted. "What if... what if there's something that you don't know?"

Nick didn't move. "What don't I know, Greg?"

Greg focused on the quiet clouds in his mind and tried to cling to them, tried to use them to relax the tension in his body, but grasping at clouds was inevitably the same as grasping at mist, and every time he did the only thing he succeeded in doing was scattering them further away from him.

"Nick... I'm really scared."

"You said that already."

"But it's not just the drugs, it's..." He took a deep breath. "Listen, I don't know if I... actually _have_ it or anything, and to be fair there's a good chance I don't, but..."

"It's Camellia, isn't it?" Nick asked, his eyes sharp. "She... gave you something."

Greg held his breath a moment. "Yes. Maybe. I mean, I don't know if I have it, like I said..."

"What is it?" Nick pressed. "Syphilis, Herpes, Gonorrhea...? Whatever it is, Greg, I don't—"

"It's called... the Human Immunodeficiency Virus. And Camellia has it." Greg's eyes were closed when he said it, in order to spare himself from the pain of Nick's expression. But his imagination crafted images that were far worse than reality. Hurt, hate, disgust... Nick's face was contorted like a gargoyle, casting judgment on him. Greg couldn't bear to make his nightmare real, and so kept his eyes closed, waiting for a response, for a word, a movement, _anything_ that would tell him what was going on.

And after waiting for what felt like an hour, Greg got his wish, though it wasn't what he had expected.

There were no words. No gasps of surprise, no grunts of disgust or groans of pity. There were only arms, strong, burly arms that encircled him, a hand in his hair, pressing Greg's face into the comfort of a soft, warm cotton shirt, and he tensed in the protective embrace because he knew he didn't deserve it. He was tainted, he was disgusting, and deserved to be pushed away, not pulled closer, not by anyone, least of all by Nick.

Someone was kissing the top of his scalp, lips in his hair, the breath from between them swirling around in Greg's curls, but neither of them spoke a word. Greg's mind eventually came to the conclusion that even though he may not _deserve _the embrace, there was no way he was going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so he accepted it. And as he accepted it, he allowed his body to relax, to be taken over by Nick's steady grip, to liquefy in his arms.

Nick held him tightly, steadily. He wasn't shaking, and his breathing was normal. Greg found that he was calm as well, although a part of that, he realized, could have been blamed on the Valium in his system. But the two of them laid there in silence, neither saying anything because there was no more to say. Nick didn't need to ask _how_ Greg thought he procured the virus from Camellia. That had already been clear. And Greg didn't need to ask if Nick hated him, because his actions spoke louder than his words ever could. Nick didn't need to tell Greg how sorry he was, how worried he was, because Greg was feeling it too.

Greg exhaled and the fog of calm returned to him in Greg's arms. He still couldn't quite fall asleep, but he was content just to lie there with Nick. He took deep breaths and felt Nick's fingers contract and expand again in his hair, massaging his scalp, twirling his curls around Nick's fingers. The hand moved down to the nape of Greg's neck, which he gently rubbed.

After what felt like forever, Greg finally breathed into Nick's chest, "Thank you."

Nick said nothing in reply, he just continued in his soothing actions. A small smile graced Greg's lips. This had been all he wanted. All he needed.

Some time later, Greg's body began to tingle, and he knew that the Valium was wearing off. He had no idea how long they had been lying there on that bed, but Nick was still there, holding him, and so Greg could care less how long it had been. But he pulled away, making Nick's hand fall against Greg's shoulder. Greg adjusted himself so they were eyelevel and less than a breath away from each other. He peered into Nick's orbs momentarily, which were cloudy and dark, but he couldn't look away. But eventually, he succeeded in closing his eyes and leaning forward, meeting Nick's lips with his in quiet gratitude, to express everything that could never be spoken.

It was Nick who turned the chaste, grateful kiss into a much deeper, more intimate one when he pushed himself closer to Greg, his tongue slipping between Greg's lips, his hand clenching on Greg's shoulder, and Greg returned it eagerly, chills flooding his body that he was sure went far beyond the effects of the drugs.

And then, finally, Greg pulled away, his cheeks burning in shame and he leaned his forehead against Nick's, averting his gaze. Nick seemed to detect this unusual change, and he tucked a stray curl behind Greg's ear.

"You're not... afraid..." Greg noted.

"Afraid of what?" he said, his voice low and husky.

"Me. You're not afraid of me."

The hand became flat against his ear and slid down to his cheek. "I think you give yourself too much credit," he said.

"What?"

Nick was smiling. "You're not as scary as you think you are."

Something inside Greg fainted. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

"You're right," said Nick, and then, right against his ear, he whispered, "You deserve so much better than me."

"You know that's not—"

"Don't even try, Greg," Nick interrupted. "You know you're better than that."

Greg couldn't help but let out a tired laugh. "You're right," he said smugly, twisting in Nick's arms. He rested his head against the pillow and grasped Nick's hands, pulling them around his waist. "I am."

Outside the window, Greg could see the pink and violet fingers of dawn creeping up over the windowsill. He sighed, but his smile didn't waver.

Nick nuzzled Greg's neck. "Is this what you wanted?"

"No," said Greg as he studied the morning sky. "No, it's... so much more."

ooo

_Two Months Later..._

His eyes were closed as he regulated his breathing. Ten seconds in, ten seconds out. He focused on tensing and relaxing all his muscles in turn. His fingers, his hands, his arms, his shoulders, then down his torso, all the way to his toes.

A knock on his door aroused him from his concentration. He opened one eye. "Yeah?"

Sylvia cracked it open and greeted him with a smile. "You have a visitor. Would you like to see her now?"

"Her?" Greg asked out of curiosity and mute disappointment, propping himself up on his bed. "Yeah, sure, Sylvie, send her in."

The door opened wider and Sylvia stepped back, revealing Greg's visitor. She slid in through the door, which Sylvia closed behind her, and moved to a chair by Greg's bed, sitting down and folding her hands in her lap. She smiled up at him.

"You look pretty good," she told him, as if this were a surprise.

"You were expecting a corpse?" Greg returned with half a smirk.

"The way Nick was talking about you, yeah, kinda," she confessed. "How are you doing, Greg?"

"Great," he told her. "Considering. Nick talks to you about me?"

"Often."

Greg felt his cheeks grow slightly warmer. "Oh... What does he tell you... about me?"

She chuckled. "Nothing you should be ashamed of," she told him vaguely.

"It's good to see you again, Sara," Greg said, sincerely.

"I would have been here sooner," Sara replied, "only I wasn't sure what kind of person I would find here."

"I can understand that," Greg admitted. "There was a long time where I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror for fear of what I'd see looking back."

She moved her chair closer to his bed, her smile broadening. "But you look... great," she told him. "Honestly, you do. And you should be _proud_ of what you overcame. It's tough."

"Yeah... yeah, I know," he said. "Believe me, you don't have to tell me how tough it was." They both laughed. "But I learned something, too. I learned that even smart people can make stupid decisions. Based on all the things they think they know..."

"I have something for you," said Sara. "The nurse, Sylvia, asked me to give it to you. It's your mail."

Greg stiffened. "Oh?" He tried to sound disinterested, but Sara could tell that he knew what was coming.

"Nick mentioned that you got tested for HIV a few weeks ago," said Sara.

"The, um..." He coughed, "first test came back negative, but that was only two weeks after exposure, so I thought... just to be safe..."

She nodded and handed him a sienna envelope. "Well, now you'll know for sure, won't you?"

He stared at the envelope in her hand. "Would you... mind? I mean, I don't think I can—"

"It's OK, Greg," Sara assured him, pulling the envelope back again. "It's OK to be scared."

Greg sighed and looked down at his bed. Sara slowly opened the envelope and pulled the papers out. She stared at it as Greg waited, with bated breath, for her to say something.

"Huh," she said.

Greg frowned. "'Huh'? 'Huh' what? What does that mean?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Did you know that you have high cholesterol? You should watch that."

"Sara!"

"It's negative!" she said quickly, unable to suppress a laugh. "Greg, you're going to be just fine."

All the tension melted away and a soft sigh of relief escaped his lips. "Oh thank God... Sara..."

She smiled and reached out to take his hand. "You're getting better, Greg."

"Maybe..." Greg muttered. "My mind's still fuzzy without the drugs... The doctors say that my brain should be back to normal after a year or so of being off the pills. I'm... pretty lucky, aren't I, Sara?"

She nodded. "Yes, you are. In a number of ways."

Greg looked out the window. "I almost threw everything away," he whispered, "because I thought I was _unlucky_."

"We have our fair share of ups and downs," Sara said. "You are lucky to have someone like Nick to take care of you. You are lucky that you didn't kill your brain with Valium. And you're really lucky you avoided HIV."

Greg sighed. "I'm lucky I survived after the attack in the alley... Warrick never came out of his alley, did he?"

Sara tried to smile warmly, but her eyes were sad. "It's because of Warrick that we have to learn to appreciate what we have."

"Which is each other," said Greg.

She nodded. "That's right." She rose to her feet. "Nick sends his love. He says he would have come with me today, but he's been putting in a bunch of overtime lately..."

Greg shrugged, trying to hide his disappointment. "Tell him it's OK..."

She looked up at him, her eyes sincere. "It's not," she said. "Has he come to see you at all, since you've checked in here?"

Greg avoided her gaze. "Things are hard..." he said, spouting the usual rationalizations. "He calls, though. We talk on the phone a lot. But you know, he's busy, and..."

Sara nodded. "We're all worried about you. Nick most of all."

"Maybe he's afraid of what he'll see in me," said Greg. He looked up at Sara. "Like you were."

Sara rose to her feet and nodded. "I think you're right."

"I get out on Tuesday," said Greg. "Still have the support group, but now that I've been detoxed, they trust me enough to live on my own now."

"Super," said Sara. "I'll be here to pick you up and take you home."

ooo

He made his way to the front desk at noon and Lana the receptionist smiled up at him and slid a clipboard his way.

"Congratulations, Mr. Sanders," she said brightly. "What are you going to do with all your new free time?"

"Attempt to find a job," Greg replied. "I don't think they'll rehire me where I used to work."

"Well, good luck with that." She was still smiling. Greg realized that she must ask this of every addict checking out of the clinic. It reminded him of the phrases he regurgitated to grieving families when he had to ask them what happened. He doubted she was actually interested in Greg's life at all. She was just doing her job and being friendly.

He decided to shake things up a little. "You gonna miss me, Lana?"

She looked amused. "Miss you? Are you kidding? Go on, get out of here, you sap! I think I saw a car outside with your name on it."

Greg chuckled lightly to himself, in good humor, and lifted his suitcase and made his way out the door. He saw a car, but it wasn't a Prius. He hesitated, but then it honked at him, so he approached it, wondering if Sara had bought a new car, or if she had sold her old one and was renting while she was in the city. Still, the car was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't tell why until he opened the passenger door.

It was when he saw the driver that the memories came back.

He didn't get into the car.

"Come on," said the driver. "What are you waiting for?"

Greg offered him a nervous smile. "Hey, Nick."

Nick turned his head and grinned at Greg. "Hey. Now get in the car."

Greg, slightly assuaged by Nick's expression, obliged and closed the door. Nick began to drive.

"I thought Sara was picking me up," Greg said after a moment.

"I convinced her that it would be better if I did it," Nick confessed. He seemed to blush a little. "I missed you."

"Then why didn't you come to see me?" The question slipped out, unwanted. Greg hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but he couldn't have helped it. "I mean..."

"No, it's OK, you're right," said Nick. "Sara's already given me hell about it. I don't know, I just... I wasn't sure if you would want to see me."

Greg blinked, confused. "Why wouldn't I want to see you? You were the person I kept hoping to see. Every time they said someone had come to see me, I always..." He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by this admission. "No, maybe it's better you didn't come. I don't... I don't want to be reliant on you or anything."

Nick sighed. "No, I _should_ have come. Which is why I came today. I wanted to... make up for it. I just thought, since, you know, I was there, I saw you... break, that you would be embarrassed or something about seeing me." He paused. "Wait, who other than Sara came to see you?"

"I'm not _that_ unpopular," Greg said, at an attempt at levity. "I have friends outside of you and Sara."

"Who?" Nick pressed, sounding almost jealous.

The emotion baffled Greg. "A couple people," he said, being intentionally vague. "Why do you care so much?"

"It wasn't..." Nick began, then changed course. "_She_ didn't come to see you, did she?"

Greg cocked an eyebrow, but Nick was watching the road and couldn't see. "She? Who's she? Catherine came, if that's what you mean."

"No," said Nick. "No, I mean... that girl. The one who messed you up. Camellia. Ana Peréz."

Greg suddenly understood. "Oh. No, she didn't... She doesn't care enough about me to do that."

"Mm," Nick muttered. "Are you saying I don't care—"

"What?!" Greg interjected, before Nick could even suggest it.

"Look, Greg, I'm sorry I didn't come, OK, but quit throwing it in my face!"

"I'm _not_!" Greg cried incredulously. "I'm really _not_, OK, there's no need for you to get defensive—"

"I'm not getting defensive," Nick interrupted, curtly. "I'm not, I just... I want you to understand that I do care. I care a lot, OK, I just... I was confused. I didn't know what to do. I was... I was scared, Greg."

"You were afraid of what I'd be like, during my withdrawal," Greg muttered quietly.

Nick frowned. "What? No! No, Greg, I _saw_ you during your withdrawal, and... and yeah, that did scare me, but that wasn't what I was afraid of when I thought about going to see you. I was..." He chewed on his lip and sighed, gripping the wheel tightly. "OK, listen... promise you won't... think I'm stupid or something when I say this."

Greg was even more confused than when he had first entered into this conversation. "Nick, I could never..."

"OK, well..." He was hesitant and strangely self-conscious, which was highly unusual for Nick. "I thought... the only time you ever seemed to be... interested, in me, I mean, was when you were... delusional. I was worried that when you were sober again, you'd wake up and... regret all the things you said and I didn't... I didn't want you to regret them, you see, because they were... they _felt_ so... Gyah, can we just forget I said this?"

Greg was quiet for a moment as he stared at Nick, but the Texan kept his eyes resolutely on the road. Finally, the younger man whispered, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why forget it? Nick... I'll be honest. I don't remember everything I said, but I know that I probably meant it. I've been wanting to say so many things to you, but I didn't because I knew... I _thought_ that you wouldn't... well, appreciate them."

Nick didn't reply, and Greg tried to read his features. He turned into a parking lot of a fast food restaurant.

"Are you hungry...?" Greg asked.

Nick pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. He turned his head and looked at Greg with soft brown eyes and slowly smiled. "Sara tells me you're going to be OK."

"Yeah," said Greg. "I mean, I have meetings once a week, but all in all—"

"No, I mean, your health," Nick clarified. "You're OK."

Greg held his breath, then sighed. "Yeah... Yeah, I'm gonna be OK."

"You know, it wouldn't have made a difference to me if that test came back positive," said Nick. "I want to be with you, Greg. I don't think anything should get in the way of that. Not anymore."

"You... you want... me?" Greg's mouth was dry as he felt a smile stretch his lips. "I want to be with you, too."

Nick was beaming now, his face flushing as he leaned across the space between them, placing a warm hand on Greg's cheek and the younger man leaned into it, closing his eyes and moving his head like a cat desperate to be petted.

"I really did miss you, Greg," Nick whispered, moving closer to Greg and pressing their foreheads together. Greg could feel Nick's breath against his lips. "Holding you in my bed the night before you left for the clinic... The bed has felt empty ever since."

Greg had been without Nick for two whole months and he was unable to restrain himself any longer. He darted forward and claimed Nick's lips for his own, and the Texan greedily returned the kiss, inhaling sharply on impact, pushing himself as close to Greg as possible.

That night, Greg returned to Nick's bed, and it would never be empty again.


	20. New Beginnings

_**Author's Note:**_ And here's your ending. If I feel like it, I may include an epilogue, but I haven't decided if it's necessary (it would concern Camellia). So I think this is it. Working on a few projects now, we'll see what comes up next.

* * *

Nick and Greg only parted when the former had to go into work, and Greg took that opportunity to go back to his own apartment and straighten things out. He had found someone to sublet very hastily, on account of his quick departure, and he was a little nervous about the state she had left things in when she had vacated a week prior to Greg's return. But unlocking the door, Greg was actually impressed with how organized the place was. He even noticed that his DVDs were suddenly alphabetized, and none of them were missing. He smiled at himself, wondering if his luck was finally turning around.

He went into the kitchen where he found a note from her, in neat handwriting.

_I cleaned up a bit, I hope you don't mind. Also, I would have fed the cat you said you had, but he never showed up, so I just left a bowl out on your balcony in case he was interested. As far as I know, he never came to eat it._

_Leslie_

Greg sighed and suddenly, with a sharp pang, felt the absence of his odd but loveable patchy cat, Liver. He pursed his lips, finally accepting that Liver was gone for good, and he wouldn't come back.

And then, he saw the PS on the letter...

_P.S. Forgot to mention, I found some pills spilled out on the table when I got here. I threw the ones on the table out (you don't want dirty pills, they'll just make you sicker!) and put the bottle back in your medicine cabinet._

Greg tensed and held his breath a moment. He spun around and marched straight for his bathroom, where he threw open the mirrored cabinet and saw all of his medications lined up neatly in a row, from Advil to Valium.

Valium...

Greg closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He didn't need the drug anymore, and had sworn to his sponsor that he would never touch it again. More than that, he had promised _himself_.

Greg clutched the pill bottle in his hand and stared at it for a moment. _So much trouble from such a little bottle,_ he thought to himself.

With a determined frown, he turned on the tap and unscrewed the cap. He held the bottle over the swirling water in the sink, his hand shaking. He was ready to tip it over, to pour those damn pills down the drain, but something was holding him back. He grit his teeth, his throat closing up as he stared at the trembling bottle and then, furious with himself, he threw it at the mirror and the leftover pills scattered across the tile floor.

Greg sat on the edge of the bathtub with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair, taking deep breaths. Going through the withdrawal had been painful, frightening, and long, but he had done it. He had told himself it was because he had more strength inside of him than he'd previously thought, but now all he had to do was tip a bottle of pills out into the sink and for some reason, he couldn't do it. He had kicked withdrawal's _ass_, and yet he _still_ couldn't get rid of the pills.

And then, suddenly, there was a knock at his door and Greg's head shot up. For a moment, he thought he'd imagined it, but then there was another knock. Greg rose to his feet and walked to his living room, and then the door, opening it without a second thought.

In the frame stood Gil Grissom, with a stern expression in his eyes, but a contradictorily soft smile.

"Hello, Greg," he said quietly.

Greg said nothing as he looked back at his old supervisor. And after a moment, he stepped back and gestured for Grissom to come in, which he did.

"What are you doing here?" Greg said at last as Grissom walked towards his couch.

"You've just been released from rehab," said Grissom. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"You didn't have to do that..." Greg muttered, leaning against his door.

Grissom turned around and looked at him with ice blue eyes. "You don't know what I have to do, Greg," he whispered.

Greg was startled by this answer. "What's that supposed to mean?" It had come out more accusing than Greg had intended, but rather than clarify his meaning, Greg left it up to Grissom's interpretation.

"It means that your... illness... has affected more than just you," Grissom replied evenly.

Greg frowned. "Do you really think I'm that self-centered?" he asked. "I know that!"

"Do you?" Grissom challenged. "What do you think the consequences of your actions are?"

"You've been worried about me, I get that," said Greg. "So has Nick, so has Catherine, and Sara, and Brass... Even Riley came to see me in rehab, OK, I get that I've upset a lot of people with what I did. I know all of that, so don't give me a lecture. I didn't do this specifically to hurt you."

Grissom nodded. "Do you know what it's been like at the lab since you left?" he asked. "Greg... with Sara gone and Warrick..." Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "The point is, this lab has seen enough trauma for a lifetime. It's not just about the people you hurt, it's about the job you left behind. Ronnie Lake, from swing shift, has done a few doubles, and Catherine and Riley have been working overtime since Ecklie keeps stalling on hiring a new CSI—"

"Ecklie hasn't—"

"No, he hasn't," Grissom interrupted sharply. "Not in three months."

Greg was quiet. "Well, that's not my fault, is it?" he asked. "He should have hired someone by now. I'm sorry that you guys have had to cover my absence, but—"

"I don't think you understand," Grissom interjected again. "You think it's just laziness that's kept Ecklie from hiring someone else? Or how busy he's become? Or the lack of qualified applicants? Ecklie may be a lot of things, but careless is not one of them, and there are plenty of eager young CSIs who would be _happy_ to have your job, Greg, and don't you think for a second that you're irreplaceable."

Greg was confused. "If I'm not irreplaceable, then how come you haven't replaced me yet?"

"Because..." Grissom finally faltered. He sighed and almost laughed. He looked up and he was smiling. "Because even though there are dozens of qualified applicants, the only one we want is you."

Greg's face grew a few degrees warmer. "You... you've been waiting for me."

"We have," said Grissom. "As a CSI, Greg, you're not irreplaceable. But as a friend... you are."

"Are you... offering me my job back?" Greg breathed. He frowned. "Is... is _Ecklie_ offering me my job back?"

"After the losses our team has suffered in the past year, I think even Ecklie is averse to making it suffer more," said Grissom. "So... yes. We are offering you your job back."

Greg laughed, suddenly very aware of the distance between them. "I..." He hesitated, feeling the urge to close that distance and hug his supervisor, but reason told him that would be inappropriate. He settled for a grateful nod. "Thank you, Grissom."

"You start tomorrow," Grissom said, heading for the door. "Stay healthy, Greg."

And then, he was gone, and Greg was alone. He looked down the hall towards his bathroom and sprinted to it, where he gathered all the pills off of the floor and dropped them all into the sink, turning on the water and watching them swirl down the drain, grinning all the while.

* * *

Greg was standing in the middle of his living room with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched to his sides as he focused on his breathing. He raised his arms up above his head and brought his palms together, before bringing them down in front of his chest. Still putting heavy concentration on his breathing, he bent forward, moving down onto the mat, putting one foot behind him and pausing there.

He heard a distant sound outside of his focus, but tuned it out. Now was the time for concentrating on this basic exercise, and not for anything else. Yoga had been an activity that helped him keep his mind off of the drugs when he'd been at the clinic, and he continued it now because it was a good way to purge his body of stress, and a much healthier habit than the Valium had ever been. He ducked his head and inhaled, placing his other foot down and moving flat on the mat with his elbows bent in the air. He exhaled. He swooped up, arching his back. There was still noise, but he continued to ignore it. He inhaled. He brought one knee beneath him. He exhaled. He brought the other knee.

By now, the noise was beginning to penetrate his calm state of mind and a hint of irritation was creeping up on him, as well as a vague sense of wonder about where this noise was coming from. The neighbors, perhaps, or someone at the...

The door.

Greg opened his eyes and found himself in his original position, with his hands clasped in front of his chest. He tuned his ears and heard frantic banging and screaming coming from his door. In nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, he jogged over and opened it to find a hysterical and pale Nick staring at him and breathing hard.

"What the hell is the matter with you?!" Nick demanded. "I've called, you didn't answer, I knock, you don't answer, I thought—"

"Sun salutes," Greg blurted out. "I was doing sun salutes. I didn't hear you."

"What?" Nick blinked.

A slow grin spread across Greg's features. "Yoga," he explained. "I was... concentrating. Didn't hear you. Actually, I did hear you, but I..."

Nick sighed and raked his hands through his hair. "Jesus Christ, Greg, I was so worried that something had happened to you..."

"Don't you trust me?" Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. He had meant it playfully, but then Nick hesitated and Greg's smile faded. "Well, don't you?"

"I trust you with my life, Greg, but not with your own," Nick confessed diplomatically.

Greg's mouth opened slightly. He had confess, the remark had caused some injury. But before he could respond, his ringing phone interrupted their silent conversation.

Nick looked startled by it, and Greg turned around. The phone was buzzing on his kitchen counter, and vying for his attention. Though he didn't know who was calling, he needed a minute to think. "I have to take this," he lied, and moved to the kitchen counter, answering immediately. Nick walked into his apartment without invitation and the door fell closed.

"Greg Sanders."

"Mr. Sanders," the speaker began, a voice familiar yet plagued with weariness. "It's nice to meet you. My name is Ana Peréz."

"I—"

But she charged on before he could get a word in. "I'm calling to tell you that a woman you used to know, a long time ago, has passed away. But her dying will was that she offered an apology, to the person she called the only friend she ever knew."

"But Cam—"

"Her name was Camellia," the speaker continued, "a name she gave herself because she was unsatisfied with the name she was born with, and the person that grew from the name. But the name brought her trouble. And before she died, she understood that she caused you needless grief and tragedy. And she wanted you to know that you don't deserve it. She wanted you to know that... she was sorry."

There was silence and Greg swallowed to open up his constricting throat. He hung his head, waiting for her to continue, but the line was still, and for a moment he thought she'd hung up. He gripped the edge of the counter and sighed. "Miss... Peréz," he began. There was no response, but he could hear her breathing. "I understand that you have some grief and tragedy of your own."

"This is no concern of yours," the woman replied, "as we are not friends, and have never met before. You should not worry about me."

Greg felt himself smile, even as his eyes stung. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Maybe... I would like to meet you. For coffee. Just to talk."

There was a pause. "I think not," she said quietly.

Greg sighed. "Well... Camellia can rest in peace, then, because whatever grief she may have caused me, my life is no tragedy. I wish there was someway for me to tell her that I'm in a good place, that I'm better, that I'm _healthy_ and I'm _happy_ and... I just wish she could know that. Do you think she knows that, Miss Peréz?"

"I believe in a higher power, Mr. Sanders," she replied. "I believe that she can hear our conversation. But I do not believe that she believes it."

"Well, she should," said Greg. "She should believe it, because it's the truth. And if you'll just let me have a cup of coffee with you, I could—"

"I think that would be a very bad idea," she interrupted. "You see, you've already lost Camellia. I can't in good conscience let you watch as Ana Peréz fades away."

Greg gave a sad laugh. "You sound good," he said. "You sound sober."

"I've never done a single drug in my life. Not even alcohol," she said.

"No," he said. "I mean, you sound serious. You shouldn't be. You should be happy."

There was another long pause. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. "I will... keep that in mind, Mr. Sanders."

"Good bye, Miss Peréz," he said. "It was nice to meet you."

"May we never meet again," she replied. "For your sake. Goodbye, Mr. Sanders." And then, the line went dead.

Greg sighed and placed the phone on the counter. He turned to find Nick staring at him, his expression somber.

"What?" Greg asked, almost defensively.

"That was Camellia, wasn't it?" Nick asked.

"Actually, no," Greg answered, honestly. "Camellia is dead."

Nick's brow furrowed in confusion. "But I thought..."

"Don't think about it too much, Nick," Greg said, stepping forward with a smile and taking both of the Texan's hands in his own. "You don't have to worry about me anymore, OK?"

"But Camellia—"

"Camellia is no threat to me," Greg interrupted. "Nor to you."

A tinge of red crept into Nick's cheeks. "So... what does this mean?"

Greg's smile grew as he released Nick's hands and slid his own around Nick's waist, his hands proceeding to climb up the Texan's back, pulling him closer. Nick looked up, and Greg claimed his lips. When he pulled away, Nick was smiling again. "I'm OK, you're OK," said Greg. "_We're_ OK. For once in a million years, everything is just _fine_."

"Not everything," said Nick, somberly, and Greg pulled away, looking confused. But then, Nick smirked. "We're in a recession, didn't you hear?"

Greg was so relieved, he barked with laughter. "Recession, sure. Well, Nick, if _that's_ the biggest thing you're worried about, I think that's a good thing."

"Not really," said Nick. "Could turn into a depression. Inflation will skyrocket, people will lose jobs, crime rates will rise, business will—"

Greg hushed Nick by putting a finger to his lips. "Do we really have to talk about this? I mean, isn't there something _else_ we could be doing?"

Nick smiled wickedly beneath Greg's finger and opened his mouth, the finger falling gently inside.

Greg closed his eyes. "_God_, I love you..." he sighed.

Nick pulled his head back and Greg's eyes opened again to see a surprised expression. He backtracked. "I mean..."

But Nick slowly smiled. "I love you, too," he said. And it was Nick's turn to take Greg by the hands, and lead the younger man into Greg's bedroom where he closed the door behind them.

The two lovers didn't know it, but they were actually being watched. Quite closely, as a matter of fact, by a pair of dual colored eyes. It was true, one of them had lost its sight, but the other was quite sharp, and the owner of these eyes cocked his head to the side, wiggled his nose in distaste, and turned around to the bowl that lived on Greg's balcony with his tail in the air as he ate his free meal.

And when he was done, he hopped onto the railing of the balcony and cast one last look into the apartment of his old owner, and then, he was gone.

**THE END**


End file.
